The Phantom's Masque
by Weaver of the Tangled Web
Summary: Vice, in its true light, is so deformed, that it shocks us at first sight and would hardly ever seduce us, if it did not at first wear the mask of some virtue. [Lord Chesterfield] FINISHED.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"It is enough that you hear me! I tire of your mortal greed. Remember that what has been granted to you can also be withdrawn!"

She begged for my return; she sought for me, kneeled at that mirror and called out for me, for her Angel of Music, but I did not return. I could not. And yet, try though I may, I found myself unable to stay away from her. I shadowed her through the opera house, sat behind the mirror and watched her every move... The boy came to her, visited her, was as flattering and charming as I longed to be. He knocked upon her door and was admitted entrance just as easily as I should have been. He stalked about the opera in full view of the world, speaking with her as openly and carelessly as he pleased.

I wished for a freedom of that sort. I longed to approach her door—her real door, the simple wooden barrier that she and the rest of the world used, not this contraption of mystery through which I spoke. I longed to knock upon that door, flowers in hand, and to woo her. I longed to win her over truly and fairly.

So can one truly blame me, for my actions? When the opportunity presented itself to me, I leapt upon it like a ravenous beast.

I had been wandering down the streets, wrapped in my dark cloak and my even darker thoughts, wondering only how it was I could ever accomplish such a monumental task. For years, I had been working on a mask that would allow me to appear, from slight distances, to have a face like any other man. In broad daylight, even, would I blend—but not under close scrutiny. No, it would not serve to woo a woman; she would wish to touch, wish to admire, and the simple illusion would fall apart.

"I have a solution to your problems," came a nerve-grating croak. I was startled out of my reveries, and very nearly let out a cry. I kept my lips sealed together, however, and continued walking with my head bent, as if I had not heard the words.

Her hunched form stepped into the light of a nearby streetlamp, and a hand as skeletal as my own reached out to grab my sleeve. "Do not walk past me as if you are deaf!"

I turned slowly to face her, trying to keep my face still within the shadows. Without even hesitating, she jerked my hood back. "No illusions between us." Before I could react, she was pulling me into an alley with a strength I would not have expected of such an old woman. When she felt we were far back enough from the street, she turned again, and extended her other hand to me. Within it was a satin bag, decorated as if from the Far East, and secured by way of a tiny crimson rope.

"Mix it with your morphine," she told me, as she pressed the bag into my hand. "Your illusion will be complete."

I had no words to give her. How had she known? Had she known? Had she guessed? Certainly not...

She squeezed my fingers shut over the bag. "I ask a thing in return," she said, with a toothless grin. "You must swear to tell her the truth, before she weds you, or else the masquerade shall fall away."

Slowly, my head shook back and forth. "I know not of what you speak, Madame. I think perhaps—"

One bony hand smacked against my arm; I have few doubts that she would have hit my head, had she been able to reach. "Do not play games, Phantom—or do you prefer Angel, these days?" She cackled, and for a moment, I wondered if I had been drawn into a fairy tale, and had been faced with the wicked witch. "You do as I say, and you will be only a man—no longer a ghost, or a living corpse, or an angel. Only a man."

_Only a man..._

It was too good to be true. I watched as she hobbled into the darkness, pausing only to give a single warning: "Do not forget your promise, Opera Ghost..."

I did not dally on the streets, that night. I returned to the opera immediately, returned to my home and sat down upon one of the armchairs. The morphine tempted me, but I feared to indulge, for I knew that if I considered that option, so would I consider the option of the old woman's gift—or, curse. Who knew which? I feared to discover the answer. What she had promised... Could it truly be so? I would be only a man... Only a man?

_Only a man..._

That dainty needle lay curled in my fingers for many hours, before finally I arose and opened the little bag from the Far East. Within it lay a mass of powder. Would this be for an eternity, or would it need to be renewed? There was enough powder here to last a man a multitude of years...

Ayesha brushed against my calf, purring loudly. "Yes," I crooned in reply. "Enough of this foolishness." Without another pause, I took a pinch of the powder, and mixed it in with my morphine. The needle was prepared, and slid up into the lovely crevice of my inner elbow.

I recall staggering to my coffin, near-blind, the blood pounding wildly in my ears. Ayesha screamed as I nearly stepped on her; that scream echoed in my ears for what seemed like hours, though it was less time than it took me to reach the coffin. Carefully I lowered myself into it, tucking my arms around myself and fighting back the scream of pain that my vocal chords were begging me to make. My entire body felt as if it were trapped within a fever of an intensity previously unknown to man. My skin, always so cold, had heated to a degree that was nearly frightening. Ayesha would not come near me.

My face hurt—that terrible corpse's face, it felt as if it were being peeled, strip by strip, inch by inch, from the bones of my skull. My entire body trembled, not a bit of it spared from the pain, this pain beyond belief. I briefly toyed with the idea of more morphine, but dreaded the attempt at standing. I fought for the longest time to open my eyes, before realizing that they were, indeed, open—I had gone blind!

It was an immeasurable length of time before mercy was granted me, and I tumbled into unconsciousness, my tongue moving feebly with curses for the old woman.

_Only a man..._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

I estimate that I slept at least forty-eight hours, possibly a little more. I am not certain of the hour when the morphine was taken—along with the powder of the Far East—and neither am I certain how long I writhed in agony in my coffin before unconsciousness took me. I stumbled into my bathroom, cupping water in my hands and splashing it onto my cheeks, somehow not certain if I should truly be offering thanks, though I suppose it is the mortal's first reaction when he discovers he has not died, as he expected. Bitterness welled up strong in my throat, filling my mouth with the taste of bile. How foolish I had been, to believe that an old gypsy could grant me such a dream... I had truly deserved every moment of pain, for making such a fool of myself.

What my hands encountered however, once they had pushed through the water, was cause for hesitation in my self-loathing. I drew my hands back in disbelief, and was shocked to perceive smooth, full, normal hands; they did not have the bony, starved appearance they had once possessed. I brought my fingertips up to my face, touching and prodding. Skin, warm skin, the jaw grizzled with new hair. Eyebrows, nose—I had a nose!—chin... My face was the face of any other man. I found a full, perfect head of hair crowning my skull, thick and shaggy.

Numb feet carried me out of the bathroom and down the hall, equally-numb hands prying my way into the room that held my mother's furniture. It took little time to root out her mirror, and little more time to peer into it before I had dropped it onto the floor. It was retrieved, however—thankfully, unharmed—and again I began my careful exploration of my new features. I looked older, of course, but I looked human—I looked alive. The faintest silvering was beginning at the temples, marring the luscious coal-black hair there. My eyebrows... I ran a finger along those thin lines, smoothing out the hair there.

The pain from the night before was gone. The pain from years past was gone. I was a man. I was not the circus attraction, nor the sultan's architect, nor the Phantom of the Opera. I was a man.

_Only a man..._

Fear lurched through me, and without pause, I threw myself into song. Relief flooded me as I realized that my voice had been spared, in the change. It was still the angelic beauty it once had been.

I could not help but smile to myself, as I walked into the kitchen, to cook breakfast. What better wish could I have hoped would be fulfilled? Nothing stood between myself and Christine, now; the absent last name was, of course, unfortunate, but it would not be difficult to acquire one. She was not of an old family; no one would inquire about her choice of suitors, least of all based upon a surname. I had only to find the perfect moment to begin her seduction.

* * *

Erik Sartre. This would be my name, as I moved about the opera. I would continue to occupy Box Five, continue to act as always I had, with a few exceptions. No longer would I hide and lurk in shadow, not until it was important that I not be seen—which would, under these new circumstances, be rare. The largest obstacle to my plans was, quite simply, how to continue tutoring Christine without revealing my identity, and without endangering the success of my new life.

The opera that night was beautiful—_La Traviata_, with Christine performing brilliantly as Sophie.

In truth, it was a hideous opera—however, I was watching it, for the first time, in my box, without a mask. The air brushed against my freshly-shaven skin, stroking it with the warmth and affection of a lover. I felt bare, without it, but not in such a way that I would have wished to possess the need for that mask. My only true concern was that I somewhat feared the effects of this drug would not be long-lasting; constantly, my hand rose to touch my face, to assure myself it was still the flesh of any man.

At the end of the performance, I nearly ran down to Christine's dressing room. I had seen the Vicomte, in his brother's box, his face eager with anticipation. What else could he be eager about, than the prospect of seeing Christine? I was unsure if there was logic in that question, or if it was only that I felt that, since it rang true with my own self, certainly none could love any but Christine.

My knuckles were knocking against the door before I had even considered my actions. Certainly, I had considered them—countless times, I had repeated my intentions to myself, repeated my convictions and my promises not to become carried away. I had not thought about these plans recently, however, and that was enough to cast me into doubt.

I could see the Vicomte coming, pushing his way through the crowds. He had not yet seen me; I knocked again on her door, harder. She opened it with a cheerful smile—obviously expecting Raoul—and I could barely hold back a snarl, upon finding her so thrilled. Her smile froze upon perceiving me, a stranger, perched upon her doorstep.

"Mademoiselle," I crooned, with an extravagant bow, as I slid my fingers around her hand and pressed a loving kiss to the tops of her knuckles. When I straightened, I was pleased to find her face alight with a humble blush; my other hand slid around from behind me to present her with a single red rose. As I did so, I made a mental note to explain to her, one day, the purpose behind that rose, the story that gave it so much meaning.

The nightingale and the white rose...

And yet, in lieu of recent events, the story had lost some of its meaning in my heart. Even as my mind blessed the old woman who had handed me this chance, my heart and my soul lamented some of the beauty they knew I had lost.

"Monsieur," she stammered, "I... What have I done, to deserve such an honor?"

I smiled warmly. "Mademoiselle, it is, by far, the least I could do, to venerate such an extraordinary talent."

The blush was heightened. "Merci, Monsieur..."

"Erik," I offered. "Erik Sartre."

Those golden curls bobbed. "Monsieur Sartre." A look was cast over her shoulder, at her mirror. I barely restrained a curse. Of course she would not accept my presence—she would fear to be seen with me as much as she would with the Vicomte. "If you will excuse me, Monsieur Sartre..."

"Actually, Mademoiselle," I began, taking a step towards her, as if intending to enter into her room. "I wondered if, perhaps, you would allow me to take you to supper—if there is no other admirer who has claimed your time, this evening?"

Her dainty fingers tightened on the stem of my rose. "Monsieur Sartre, I beg of you to accept my apologies, but..." She turned her head to look at her little writing desk, and then moved towards it, carefully setting the rose there beside her journal. "I do not believe I could spare the time, this evening."

"Of course not," I replied, my voice suggesting the easiest of acceptances, though within I was near to crying out to her to reconsider. "Perhaps, another evening, then."

She nodded, offering another sweet smile. "Yes, Monsieur, perhaps another evening..."

"Christine?"

Both of our heads turned, to look upon the Vicomte. His brows were furrowed with irritation and suspicion, as he stepped up to half-block my way into Christine's dressing room. "Monsieur? I am afraid we have not met..." His eyes came to rest on my cheekbones—a pitiful attempt at pretending to lock gazes with me, while truthfully avoiding it. I could not blame him, though; despite the other changes, my eyes remained a sharp, intensely wolfish yellow. They were not the sort of eyes one relished meeting.

Ah, such a polite way of demanding to know my identity. Forcing a smile onto my lips, I extended a hand. "Erik Sartre—and you, I presume, are the Vicomte de Chagny?"

He placed his hand in mine, as he nodded. "Oui, Monsieur." A pause, and his gaze traveled between myself and Christine. "Am I.. interrupting something?" he asked, eyebrows lifting.

"No, no," Christine said immediately, reaching out and taking his hand. Jealousy burned in my chest; it took all my willpower not to leap upon them both, and rip them apart. "Monsieur Sartre was just leaving."

Forcing my smile to remain in place, I offered a slight bow to her. "Of course." And what a grand actor was I, treating the easy dismissal as if it were not breaking my heart, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to walk away from her and leave her with that disgusting young boy... "I wish you the finest of evenings, Mademoiselle."

"Merci, Monsieur," she replied, eyes remaining on my knees. Not wishing to dally any longer, I turned and strolled easily away, unthinkingly humming beneath my breath. It would be more awkward, on the next occasion—she would recall this uncomfortable parting moment, and the general strangeness of my presence, and perhaps would refuse even to speak to me. There had to be a way to win her over. The Vicomte had done it—by rescuing her scarf, I believed I'd heard them say. While I doubted I'd be granted such an opportunity as that, it did give certain inventive suggestions...

I heard the Vicomte talking in low, almost angry tones, and then heard Christine shush him. Though curiosity begged it of me, I kept my eyes forwards—even as I heard light footsteps rushing towards me. My imagination hoped that its happiest of visions was truly what lay behind me, though my mind knew better than to expect it.

A tiny hand came to rest on my shoulder, bidding me pause. I turned around, pleased to find Christine standing there, looking up at me with widened eyes. Sometimes, dreams did come true. "Monsieur," she breathed. "Your voice...!"

I had forgotten to keep silent—how foolish of me! Of course she would recognize it, subconsciously at the least. She moved as if hypnotized, adjusting her body to fully face me. Her lips were ever so slightly parted, and moistened from where moments before she must have licked them—I had seen her do it many times—it was something of a nervous habit, I believed. "Thank you, Mademoiselle," I said sweetly, trying my best to keep my tone light, trying desperately to feign naïveté.

Eyes still wide, she looked deep into my own without flinching, and asked breathily, "Monsieur, do you sing?"

I laughed. "Oui, Mademoiselle, but not on the stage." At least, not while anyone was watching. "I save my voice for private audience... and, tutor, on occasion."

"Oh, Monsieur, such a shame—your voice is so lovely..."

"Christine?" Raoul called, taking a few steps towards her. "Come, Christine, you must change, or we shall be late for supper." One of his hands was already reaching out to take her by the wrist. It took all my effort not to allow my lip to curl, watching him so blatantly treat her like a child.

For a moment, she looked as if she were going to pout—but then, suddenly, her face brightened, and her own hand reached out to take mine. That simple touch upon skin so long neglected sent a thrill through my body, and for a second time in minutes I was forced to employ the full extent of my willpower. Too hard not to gasp, to moan, to allow my eyes to flutter closed and revel in that sweet sensation. Instead, I kept my eyes firmly focused upon her, as her fingers closed around mine in a brief squeeze. "Monsieur," she said pleasantly, "you _must _come to supper with us!"

I hesitated. A supper with Christine was exactly what I'd dreamed... but a supper with Christine and the Vicomte?

"Oh, please, Monsieur," she begged, glancing at Raoul for support. "We would love to have your company."

Raoul managed a half-nod, and something that could almost be called a smile. "Yes, Monsieur, please do join us."

Sighing, I pressed two fingers to my temple. Resigned, I answered, "When given such an offer, how could I possibly refuse?"

"Oh!" Christine clapped her hands together, smile broadening. "I'll just go and change then, gentlemen." And then, the embodiment of happiness, she twirled away and retreated into her dressing room, leaving the Vicomte and I alone in the hallway. I was beginning to be very thankful I had not tucked my lasso into my coat pocket—it would have been far too much temptation.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Dinner was a tense affair. Having eaten little of what was served in restaurants, I was at a near loss upon being presented with a menu; barely was I able to manage a selection before the server came for our orders. Christine was allowed no chance to offer her own opinion; the Vicomte assumed with frustrating ease that he had the privilege of ordering for her. I watched her carefully, and was pleased to see an almost angry look pass through her eyes, before it quickly faded behind the gentle, kind sapphire surface. A somewhat smug grin managed its way upon my lips.

"So, Monsieur.. Sartre, was it?"

_Yes, that's right, boy—attempt an insult by feigning forgetfulness_. "Oui, Monsieur?"

Smiling, Raoul leaned back in his chair and began careful placement of the napkin upon his lap. "What, might I ask, is your occupation at the Garnier?"

A hand waved quickly, and then swept up my wine glass—bearing a rather exquisite wine that the Vicomte had ordered. I had to give the boy that much: he had excellent taste for wine. "No, no, Monsieur, I do not work in the Garnier. Although," and here is where my pride managed to get the best of me, "I did aid in its construction."

Eyebrows lifted. Christine offered a politely interested smile, lips then parting to ask a question before the Vicomte cut her off. (To his credit, the boy did not intend to interrupt her; I do believe he had all but forgotten her presence, so busy he was to unveil me as some dirty scoundrel in gentleman's clothing.) "A man as well-off as yourself, Monsieur, working in construction? How is it that you came upon such great fortune?"

I laughed disdainfully. "Again, Monsieur, you have assumed irresponsibly—I did not work in the construction directly (though I often dirtied my hands where the workers had not the skill), but rather acted as an architect and director of construction, beneath the wishes of Monsieur Charles Garnier himself."

"Oh my," Christine murmured, eyes lighting up. "That must have been quite the hon—"

"Really?" drawled the Vicomte, leaning forwards. "Please, Monsieur, tell me—"

I held up a hand. "Excuse me, Monsieur, but before you go on I feel there is something I must admit." The boy grinned, thinking he'd pinned me in a corner. "The first, Monsieur, is that I do not appreciate this.. inquisition. If you would not mind, I would prefer to take my supper with pleasant conversation, and not while under siege." The grin had vanished long before I progressed to my second point. "In addition, Monsieur, I must insist that you not again interrupt the lady when she attempts to speak. If I must once more endure that hurt look upon her face that appears at every interruption, I shall have no choice but to remove you from her company immediately."

Christine's cheeks flared, as quickly innocent protests rose up. "No, Monsieur Sartre, please—it is of no consequence, I do not mind. The Vicomte, he does not intend to—"

"You, Monsieur," the boy said, as one finger jabbed in my direction, "are far out of line."

Suddenly realizing the weight of my own words, I tensed, and turned my eyes down to the soup that had been set before me. "Ah, forgive me—Monsieur, Mademoiselle. My words... They escape me, in moments of passion, I am afraid." The wolfish gaze rose to focus upon Christine's, and I was shocked to find a quiet smile of understanding resting just beneath her placid exterior.

The remainder of our meal passed with little animosity between myself and the Vicomte, though there were more angry glances than I care to recount. It became quickly obvious that the rivalry between us would not be a mild one; the struggle for Christine would be a long one.

As we exited the restaurant, the Vicomte and I putting on our hats and cloaks, and Christine wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, my head turned upwards to observe the Parisian sky. As the moonlight shown down, mingling with the light from the streetlamps, I allowed my eyes to close. It was comforting knowledge, that the sky so brashly illuminated a face no man or woman would shrink from, and it was wonderful to rejoice in the sensation of moonlight upon bare skin, without fear. To think, that only seventy-two hours prior...

One cannot know what it feels like to have moonlight upon the skin, until one has gone for so long without it. It is something that man does not appreciate as he should.

"I don't suppose, Monsieur," the Vicomte was saying, "that you would prefer to walk home?"

I turned my gaze on him, eyebrows rising at the brashness of the suggestion. Christine immediately expressed her displeasure—I cut her off with the raising of a hand. "Please, Mademoiselle, the Vicomte is correct in his assumption. A walk would be beautiful, on such a night as this." In truth, I was thankful of the easy escape the Vicomte had offered me; too difficult it would be to view the affectionate parting between them, and with only a slight smile and a "good night" to me—and too difficult it would be to explain why I would prefer to be dropped off at the Garnier.

Without awaiting the argument I knew would come from her, I turned and slid my hands into my pockets. I kept my stride at a rolling gate, not too anxious to return to the dreary home that awaited me. Truly, after spending such an evening, how could I ever view my home with the same appreciation I once had?

I heard their voices behind me, slowly rising in volume until the conversation was ended by a rather sharp retort from Christine. It was not long afterwards that I heard quick footsteps behind me, and her sweet voice calling: "Monsieur, please, wait for me!"

I stopped, and waited until she had fallen into place beside me to again pick up my stroll. It was difficult to contain the elation that was driving my pulse to race as it did; after half a century behind a mask, one night was hardly sufficient to teach one to suddenly guard their expressions. "Was there a disagreement with the Vicomte, Mademoiselle?"

A sigh was brought forth. "Oui, Monsieur—but please, you mustn't think him a horrible man. He is usually very kind, very thoughtful..." She risked a glance at me, and then quickly focused her eyes on the sidewalk again. "Though I must admit, Monsieur.. you certainly bring out the worst in him."

I laughed, without thinking. "Yes, Mademoiselle, I seem to have that effect on many people."

She laughed as well, though I'm certain she did not at all catch the joke; how could she have, without having known my identity? Still, that she was sweet enough to laugh simply for the sake of laughing merely endured me to her further. "So, Monsieur, where do you live?"

"Not too far—and yourself?"

"Oh, just a few streets over... That is why the Vicomte dines with me here: it is close to Mama Valerius's home."

I nodded. "Of course, I would be happy to walk you home, Mademoiselle..."

"I'm quite sure that is unnecessary, Monsieur," she mumbled, head lowered.

My steps paused, and a hand reached out to touch ever so lightly against her shoulder. Tingles thrilled through my arm. "Really, Mademoiselle—it would be no trouble."

Eyes wide, she pursed her lips. "Oh... I, I mean, merci. It would be greatly appreciated..."

Nodding, I continued walking, hand returning to its cozy pocket. "So, yourself and the Vicomte—you are.. lovers?"

Even out of the corner of my eye, I could see her face light up in a heated blaze. "Mais non, Monsieur!" she cried immediately. "The Vicomte and myself—we are friends, only old friends, from long ago..."

_Methinks thou doth protest too much_—but I did not say as much aloud. "I see."

Blushing even more furiously, she asked, "And why does Monsieur wish to know of the affairs between a singer and a Vicomte?"

I grinned. "Why does a singer wish to put reason behind the idle curiosities of a composer she hardly knows?"

Her eyes locked with mine, and she smiled. "Touché."

The rest of the walk continued in silence, and ended far too soon; it seemed barely had we fallen into such comfortable quietude, that she was declaring this next door to be hers. I walked her to the door, watched as she slipped her key within and gently pushed the door open. As she stepped inside, she paused, and turned to look at me. "I am sorry the evening was not more pleasant, Monsieur. The Vicomte... he is simply very protective of me, you understand..."

Smiling, I bowed low over her hand, and kissed it with such delicate reverence. As I straightened, fingers still stubbornly clinging to hers, my eyes met hers, and I murmured softly, "Believe me, Mademoiselle—the evening could not possibly have been more perfect."

The comment was rewarded with another delicate blush. Her fingers slipped from mine, and she took a step back, becoming nothing but an angelic silhouette against the light of the indoors. "Goodnight, Monsieur."

"Goodnight, Mademoiselle."

* * *

As I entered my home in the cellars, it was with a flourish of limb and a quick spin on the toes. Such as had happened tonight had before been naught but mocking dream; how was it possible that I could ever have imagined it might happen in truth? Delight of the sort I had never before experienced was welling up within me and threatening to overwhelm.

Ayesha trotted up to me, pushing against my moving legs and purring loudly. In one graceful motion, I swept her up in my hands, clutched her to my chest, and spun 'round the kitchen with her. The idea of dancing did not at all appeal to her; yowling, she scrambled free of my arms and vanished in a streak of fur down the hallway.

The blunt refusal did not at all injure me; a merry laugh instead took the place of what may once have been a moan of despair, and the gloomy little house seemed to light up with the presence of gaiety. "Oh, Christine!" I cried, again spinning, and nearly crashing into one of the chairs that sat at the small kitchen table. Love before had been a horrible affliction, a thing that devoured and destroyed, a thing that left me wallowing in such despair that not even I had known before.

But now! –Now, Love was a thing for which to be overjoyed! Love brought me happiness, brought such lightness of spirit as I had not before known. She left me dancing about my home like a foolish young man who has experienced his first boyish crush! I laughed not only for the merriment of my disposition, but for the foolishness of my own actions. And yet, how could I help but act foolishly? All men do, they say, when they are in love, and now I was only a man. Only a man, only a man! Naught but a silly man in love! An older man than most in my situation, true, but still just a man. No elegantly tragic situation held me apart from them now, unless one counted my living situation...

As I paused to consider my finances, and how quickly my living arrangements could be adjusted to more suitable ones, I felt a sudden coldness of limb. Now that I was of flesh and blood, would the chill of my home disturb me? Or...

Acting almost in chorus with the chill, my face felt suddenly as if it were on fire. Disconcerted, I raised my hands to touch against my face; the collision of ice and fire was not at all appreciated by the skin involved, and immediate and merciless pain was its expression of such. As a result, my hands jerked away from the skin, and instead caught my clumsy stagger as I lurched towards the Louis-Philippe room, and my mother's mirror.

What I found in that reflecting glass was enough to make me cry out. The skin upon my head, be it face or scalp, was slowly oozing from my skull like melted rubber. Hair, cartilage, blood vessels—all slipped in mudslide formation down to my neck, dripped off to fall in sickening puddles on my shoulders and on the floor. My nose was the most horrible to observe; it slowly deformed, and then in one startling moment, dropped off and onto my hand, burning into the skin there.

The mirror collided with the floor and cracked, as in my haste to reach the bathroom my fingers merely released it. Barely did I reach the toilet in time to avoid being sick all over my bathroom floor.

As I sagged against the wall, hands braced against the floor, only one thought could pass through my mind:

_Thank heavens this did not happen in front of Christine._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

I awoke the next morning drooped over on the bathroom floor, near drowning in a puddle of my own face. Shakily I arose, one trembling hand tenuously reaching up to touch against my cheek. What it found was cold, taut skin: the familiar corpse's face.

It took several moments to shake off the disorientation, but eventually I managed to rise to my feet. Ayesha immediately pushed the door open and began to weave in and out of my ankles, purring loudly. I cooed to her mindlessly, and then stumbled past her and into the hallway.

Where was my room, again?

It took me a few moments to locate the door behind which lay my coffin, my organ, and the tiny box from the Far East that promised me another day with Christine. As the needle was drawn, the morphine and the powder mixed, I felt my heart begin to race with anticipation. The pain was expected, and made to seem all the more horrible by my suspense of it; taking it into consideration, I used significantly larger amounts of morphine, this time around.

The already-familiar burning started in only moments after the needle's secretion of my favorite poison, but this time I was fully prepared to fall into my coffin with as little travel as possible. It was only a few stagger-steps to its side, and very little effort was required to crawl within it. The sleep period this time was not so long, not nearly so startlingly similar to a coma; I awoke only ten or fifteen hours after taking my little tumble into oblivion.

There was no performance, this evening, only a brief rehearsal during the warmer hours. This news was realized with no small joy; with Christine free from professional obligation, I had only to hope to find her free of personal obligation, as well. Even while in the thick unconsciousness brought on by my new drug, it seemed that my mind toiled away at how to win her; when I awoke from that deathly sleep, relieved to once more find myself in possession of human limb and face, I knew already what I intended for the evening.

I caught her outside her dressing-room. With everything for our evening prepared, I waited in shadow until she had entered it to change, and then moved to lean against the wall in wait for her departure. As I stood, keen ears trained on her every movement in anticipation, those ears perceived a sudden stillness. With almost no imagination was I able to picture her standing before that gaudy mirror, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. As if to assure the accuracy of my beliefs, I heard a quiet sob, and then whispered words.

"Angel... Oh, my angel... Why do you not come to me?"

My eyes closed against the pain and longing in that voice; my fingers curled into fists. What I had done to her had been nothing short of cruel; my foolish desires had left her, childlike, begging in front of a mirror!

"My angel, please...! Can you not hear me? I am sorry!"

Her voice was rising in volume, the tone becoming sharper, more distressed. Quick interference was necessary, but I faltered upon being presented with two choices. Either Erik Sartre distracted her, or the Angel of Music blessed her with a return. The latter seemed as if it would bear more weight in the child's mind, but the former seemed more aimed towards long-term success.

The entreaties were beginning again, in a low, forlorn moaning. "Angel, my angel, please... Oh, my angel... I am begging you, _L'ange de la Musique_!"

Without thinking, I nearly threw myself against her door, and gave it a sharp knocking. I heard her go rigid, and then heard the urgent sounds of hasty recovery. "J-just a m-moment!" she called, voice raw. My heart thudded uncomfortably against my chest.

"Mademoiselle, it is I, Monsieur Sartre..."

She hesitated, and then cracked the door. "Monsieur..? What brings you here, for rehearsals?"

A shoulder lifted in a shrug, and I attempted a brave smile. "The same that brings me here for performances, Mademoiselle."

Her eyebrows lifted, as slowly the door began to open wider. "A love for the opera, Monsieur?"

My head cocked to the side a bit. "No, Mademoiselle—a love for the finest soprano Paris has ever known."

Christine froze, and then stepped back. "E-excuse me, Monsieur... Just a moment..." The door clicked shut in my face.

I cursed myself for speaking so bluntly—what had I been thinking? Those pretty eyes, wide and red-rimmed with tears, had swept me up into their world and completely confused my common sense. "You must readjust to normal society, Erik," I muttered to myself. "Otherwise--"

"What was that, Monsieur?"

My head jerked up, to find Christine standing expectantly in the doorway, shawl wrapped around her shoulders. "Ah, nothing, Mademoiselle. Merely.. talking to myself."

A nod, and then she stepped forwards into the hallway, door closing behind her. Just as it was swinging shut, I saw her sneak a final glance at the mirror. I must admit that I was a little disturbed by the jealousy I was experiencing, considering that I was jealous of none other than myself. Would I the man forever have to struggle against this loyalty she felt for I the Angel, I the Phantom?

I looked at her, to find her eyes on me, brows lifted as if waiting for something. The look tickled the corners of my lips, begging for an affectionate smile. She knew I wished to request her company, and yet she was humble enough not to dream of hinting that I did. Perhaps she even doubted it, but I do not believe she was truly that dense.

My arm was offered to her, and she took it graciously. As we worked our way slowly through the mass of people and towards the outdoors, I turned to look at and thus address her. "And so, Mademoiselle, what are your plans for this evening?"

She smiled, almost to herself. "Very little, I am afraid, Monsieur."

I nodded. "And what would you like your plans to be for the evening, Mademoiselle?"

This was rewarded with musical laughter. "In truth, Monsieur, I am rather fond of my plans as they stand already."

"And would you be equally fond of them, if they were to involve a carriage ride and a supper with your biggest admirer?"

Her countenance was lowered. "Monsieur, forgive me, but you certainly are not my biggest admirer."

I knew she was not speaking of the Vicomte. Smiling softly, I stopped walking, forcing her to look at me in question. "Forgive _me_, Mademoiselle, but I most certainly am."

When her eyes met mine, for just a moment, there was disbelief of the sort that occurs only when one truly believes something magnificent. Quickly it faded, however, as she must have convinced herself otherwise. After all, how could this old man be her Angel?

Even I did not know the answer to that question.

Shaking her head, she began walking again, which naturally pulled me quickly into motion beside her. As we slipped out the stage door and into the Paris sunset, she began to speak, soft tones of apology that were easily recognizable as a coming dismissal. Heart racing, I cut her off with a wave of my arm, and a murmured, "Mademoiselle—your carriage awaits."

Her breath stilled as she turned eyes upon the brougham, and a hand rose to press against her lips. "Monsieur, that is your own?"

I nodded, guiding her towards it and opening the door for her. She lingered before entering, however, taking a moment to look down the side of the carriage and at the horse pulling it. The hired driver tipped his hat to her; she ignored him, eyes fastened upon the horse. After a moment, she shook her head, took my hand and stepped into the brougham. I followed, close on her heels.

"You seemed very interested in the horse, Mademoiselle," I said easily as we both sat down.

"It is just..." She sighed, and shook her head again. "It is foolish."

My breathing took a turn for the shallow. "What, Mademoiselle?"

Her eyes fastened onto mine, staring hard into them for a long moment. "Monsieur, it is only that your horse..." She blushed, and looked down at her lap. "He looks just like the white horse in the Profeta." Immediately, she regretted her words, and covered them with a high-pitched laugh. "You see, Monsieur? I told you it was foolish!"

I forced myself to laugh alongside her, though truly my heart was lodged so tightly in my throat that I barely could squeeze the laughter past it. Perhaps it had been foolish to make use of César outside the very opera-house from which I had stolen him.

Well, more like _borrowed_, really...

"May I ask you a question, Monsieur?"

I smiled, in truth grateful for the turn in conversation. My deeds, it was true, were not honorable, and though I felt little obligation to show any respect to the general populace, I became significantly uncomfortable when those deeds were placed under Christine's angelic regard. "Of course you may, Mademoiselle," I said, with a gracious nod of the head.

One hand gestured to my clothing, and she smiled. "Forgive me, Monsieur, but.. might I ask why you dressed in eveningwear, for the sake of midday rehearsals?"

I froze. I could not very well tell her that it was all I owned, all I'd had use for since moving into my little hellhole... However, what excuse was I to give? Suddenly, the most artful of moments occurred, and almost without considering my next words, I offered her a dashing grin and replied, "Why, to look my best for you, of course."

She laughed, and did not pursue the subject, though I caught a few odd looks from her as we rattled along the streets of Paris.

"Oh, Monsieur!" she cried, as she stepped down from the brougham. In her shock, she allowed her hand to linger in my own. "Monsieur, where are we?" she asked in amazed tone, as she moved forward into the grass, and into the long shadows cast by the mammoth trees standing guard along the edge of that glassy lake.

"Just a quiet spot in the countryside," I said with a smile, as I fetched the picnic basket from the carriage. I caught up to her, and we walked slowly up the bank, until she paused and nodded. I spread the blanket there for her, and we both sank down upon it. Slowly, purposefully, I began to lay out the lukewarm contents of her supper, complete with the finest red wine I had been able to find on such short notice.

"Monsieur, you have done far too much," she said meekly.

"Ha!" My eyes met her own, and with an almost condescending smile (of the most affectionate sort), I said, "That is an impossible feat, Mademoiselle."

Christine leaned back on her hands, head lolling back to cradle against her shoulders as she admired the woven tapestry of tree branches above us. The sun just barely cast light upon us; his golden glow already was vanishing beyond the horizon, leaving us in the twilight of coming darkness. She seemed not at all uncomfortable in the night; her lips were curled in a contented smile, and her eyes flitted about not in fright but in childlike curiosity. Suddenly her lips parted, to emit sweet voice tuned to lyrical words: "Come, darkness, moonrise, everything that is so silent, sweet, and pale: come, so ye wake the nightingale..."

As if in answer to that poetic quotation of half-prayer, the nightingale's song came cutting through the semi-dark to bless our ears with its airy notes. Both our heads lifted, countenances turning in that heavenly direction, and barely did we breathe for a moment as we heard its call.

I reminded myself a second time to tell her of that sorrowful Persian tale, though now was certainly not the time. This simple happiness in such companionable silence—the only exceptions the heart-felt songs of the birds and insects around us—need not be broken by such a melancholy repeating of ancient words. No, it could wait—without doubt, it could wait.

Instead, in reply to her own poetry, I dug through mind to produce my own quotation: "What bird so sings, yet does so wail? O, 'tis the ravish'd nightingale--she cries, and still her woes at midnight rise..."

Our eyes locked, and both began to smile. She recognized the challenge in my reply, and almost without hesitation, she breathed, "Where the nightingale doth sing, not a senseless, tranced thing, but divine melodious truth."

Chuckling softly, I held up both hands in supplication. "Very well, my lady--I surrender." Those hands were then put to pouring her a glass of wine, and handing it to her with utmost caution. As she took it, her fingertips brushed against the back of my hand; I nearly dropped the glass, and would have, had her own hand not already begun to close around its stem.

The error seemed to go unnoticed on her part, however, and she merely turned her head towards the lake as she sipped at her wine. "It is a beautiful night," she said quietly. "Rare few are so perfect; winter is closing in, I fear, and soon such nights as this will be buried beneath the snow."

"Are you cold?" I asked immediately, lover's concern overriding poet's desire to reply in words just as fair.

She turned to look at me, and laugh almost bitterly. "For a man who so despises the Vicomte, you certainly act as does he."

It nearly occurred to me to become offended, but I caught myself, and managed a smile. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle; I wish only to keep you from harm."

She looked pointedly into my eyes, and said, "Yes. As does he."

* * *

Long did we linger upon that bank, Christine eventually consenting to my wishes and taking my coat from me. When our supper was finished, the bottle of wine long drained, we stood and began to stroll around the still lake. Barely did our feet make sound; only the whisper of grass brushing shoe did tell of our movement. It was not long, however, before wine burning in half-fed stomachs began to coax forth quiet murmurs and drunken giggles. 

"The lake looks so beautiful," she half-whispered, leaning unsteadily on my arm. It had, perhaps, been unwise to begin the wine long before beginning the supper, for by the time we had progressed to food, neither of our stomachs had felt much like eating—and in addition, we truthfully had drunk of that poison far more quickly than was wise.

"Yes, I suppose," I answered, frowning at it. Suddenly, the desire for immaculate honesty struck me, and before I could reconsider, my mouth was leaping far ahead of my mind: "I do not much care for lakes any longer."

Her head swung 'round in exaggerated motion to look at me. "What? You bring me to dine by a lake, and say you do not care for lakes?" She refocused forwards, a deep frown creasing her forehead. "Huh."

I shrugged. "I do not like lakes. After living by so dreary a one for so long, I can barely bring myself to look upon them. The smell! Dear God in Heaven. And I've fallen into that lake on several unfortunate occasions--the mere idea of lakes, now..." I sighed. "Though I do find the spot to be a lovely one--but, of course, it is nothing in comparison to you."

Even through the dark, I could see her cheeks light up. "Monsieur, you mustn't say such things," she mumbled, beginning to lean even harder on my arm. Luckily, the compliment seemed to have thrown her off from asking about the lake I so easily proclaimed residence beside. "I am just a poor singer, after all, and my position as such barely is defined. I doubt it shall be long before I am dragged back to the chorus..."

"No!" She jumped at my sudden exclamation, and though my head regretted it, my blood began boiling and my speech once again escaped me. "You shall not be put in the chorus again, Christine," I assured her in heated tones. "You are far too wonderful a singer--I will not let them hide such talent away. All of Paris shall see what angelic voice you possess, and all shall weep as I have wept, at having heard you sing."

"But, Monsieur, what say have you—"

Barely could I even hear her, the blood was rushing so loudly past my ears. "Foolish, stupid men," I hissed. "They could not see talent if it were a snake, biting them upon the cheek. Smarter men have drowned in their own—"

"Monsieur Sartre!" She planted her heels, dragging both of us to a halt. She was looking at me with widened eyes, horror written across her face. "Monsieur, I must insist you not carry on in such a fashion! You..." She hesitated, face growing deathly pale. "You sound so like... like _him_... It.. it cannot be! Oh, forgive me!" Her arm slipped away from mine, and both hands pressed to her cheeks. "I feel as if.. as if I am going to..."

_Faint._ Without finishing the sentence, her eyes rolled back in her head, eyelids fluttering, and she slumped over to one side. I managed to catch her, and lifted her easily in my arms. The walk back to the blanket was significantly longer than the walk away from it had been, but it was unclear whether it was from the weight of her burden, or a deliberate effort to hold her ever longer in my arms. I dropped to my knees on the blanket, and laid her carefully out upon it. The food and wine I packed neatly away, and then I moved to her side.

"Christine?" Silence. I patted one cheek lightly. A quiet moan slipped from her lips, and a hand raised as if searching. My own hands captured it, and she closed her fingers tightly around my own. Whether it was the wine, or just the general trend of stupidity that I had already displayed tonight, I do not know, but something bid me sing to her in hopes of soothing whatever trouble caused her to hold my hand in so vice-like a grip.

Only a few notes had been sung, when she shot up into a sitting position, hands flung out to either side. "Angel?" she cried, struggling to stand. "Angel! Angel, I hear you!"

I reached out and managed to capture her once more in my arms, dragging her down and holding her against me. She struggled, a scream rising. "Please, let me go, let me go!"

My hold tightened on her. "Christine!" I bellowed, attempting to be heard over the commotion. "It is alright, child, be still! I will not harm you."

"No, no, no!" she moaned, struggle ceasing, though she continued to strain weakly against my hold. "The Angel, I heard the Angel," she cried, as sobs began to wrack her frame. "Please, Monsieur, let me go...!"

"There is no angel!" I snapped, arms releasing her. "There is only me!" My own tears threatened to fall, but pride bid me blink them back.

Christine looked at me, frowning slightly. "You do not understand..."

_No_, I wanted to scream, _it is you who does not understand! I am not some silly man who does not understand! I am your angel, but I am no angel of music! I am only a man... _

_Only a man..._

I breathed a deep sigh, and, around the knot in my throat, managed to say, "The hour grows late. I will take you home."

* * *

Christine's words from earlier hours disturbed me, rode with me in my mind until I could not bear to think on it. _I doubt it shall be long before I am dragged back to the chorus... _No. I had meant what I had said to her (though the saying of it had been utter folly). She would not be taken from the stage, not be taken out of the lead. Far more hideous voices, borne by singers with far less talent, had spent decades in the position she so tenuously clung to. 

I stalked back and forth across the dirty sliver of lake shore outside my home, snarling at any motion in the dark that offered itself up as sacrifice to my anger. Christine had been correct, of course; five days now, I had been moving in the circles of men. That was five days without letters, five days without threats, five days without any incentive to continue obeying the orders of the Opera Ghost. What fool could expect mankind to obey laws for which they had neither seen nor heard enforcement in _five days_?

With such thought in mind, it took me only a moment to fetch my cloak and hat. The mask was nearly forgotten, for with it no longer necessary to hide such horrors from the world, it had all but slipped from mind. However, it was indeed necessary on an errand such as this, and thus did I hurry to fetch it before making the climb up to the Garnier's surface.

I came out on a catwalk, high above the stage. Only one stagehand was present at the moment—the hour was late, most of the staff already gone home or retired to hidden-away bedrooms within the opera house. This unfortunate was sweeping the stage, making a final check of all lights and equipment, before heading towards the door. I swept down upon him, landing only a few feet in front of him. I felt the mask wiggle, and it began to press uncomfortably into my cheekbones. Now that I bore the face of a man, it no longer clung to me like skin; too much meat existed on the bone, now, to comfortably bear the mask.

The stagehand let out a cry of fear, and started backwards. Cold dread had settled in my stomach; this was not a thing that I enjoyed. I had not murdered in cold blood since the rosy hours of Mazenderan; doing so again made me certain I would squirm uncomfortably beneath Christine's pristine gaze when next we met. Silently, I stepped towards him, catching his throat within my lasso's yearning loop and jerking it closed. Sounds of strangling, of suffering, were gurgling forth from the man's mouth as he fell to his knees. Wincing and turning my head away, I gave a last vicious tug, and heard the comforting _snap _of his neck.

All fell silent.

With a sigh, I freed the Punjab from 'round his neck, and began dragging the man towards the managers' office. I propped him in Moncharim's chair, and then extracted some of his stationary and a fountain pen, with which to write my damning note.

They would not soon forget the Phantom's orders.

* * *

_Poetry credits: _

_"Come, darkness, moonrise, everything that is so silent, sweet, and pale: come, so ye wake the nightingale.."  
-Christina Rossetti_

_"What bird so sings, yet does so wail? O, 'tis the ravish'd nightingale--...she cries, and still her woes at midnight rise..."  
-John Lyly_

_"Where the nightingale doth sing, not a senseless, tranced thing, but divine melodious truth."  
-John Keats_


	5. Chapter 5

_—A/N—_

_Just a shortie! More to come very soon, I promise!_

* * *

Chapter 5

A little golden key slipped its way into the keyhole on the office door, admitting Messieurs Armand Moncharim and Firmin Richard into their office. Richard moved to do such menial tasks as lighting the lamps, while Moncharim moved to his desk to begin the day that, predictably, would bring little more than a headache to either of the managers. Still, he was perhaps a little lighter of step than usually he would be—after all, this was the beginning of day six, with nary a whisper of the Ghost's existence. No head-splitting screams from the _corps de ballet_, no glass-shattering cries from Carlotta, no foreboding letters waiting for him on his—

There was a particularly foreboding letter, waiting for him on his desk. Letting out a moan, he stepped towards it.

"Armand, what is that stench?"

Moncharim did not answer; too involved was he in the letter. Weary fingers plucked the seal, unfolding the letter.

"Armand, did you hear—Oh my god!" A hand flew to grip his chest, as his other hand pointed at Armand's desk. "Dear God, man, are you blind?"

Slowly, frightened eyes were dragged over to look upon the pale, stiff corpse that was so gruesomely positioned in his chair. "Oh, God," he uttered, slowly backing away from the desk. "Oh, God, Firmin..."

Both managers turned and scuttled out of the office, calling wildly for someone to inform the police. As Richard ran about wildly trying to locate someone, anyone, Moncharim paused and leaned against the corridor wall.

_To Whom It May Concern:_

The death of this man is no fault of my own; should you have refrained from informing La Carlotta that she would soon be once again taking her "rightful" place upon the stage as lead soprano, this man would now be home with family rather than in the hands of the inspector.  
I advise you to keep this incident in mind, should you again be tempted to threaten the position of Mlle. Daaé. Her role as lead shall never again be questioned or endangered; should you fail to follow my orders, you will be faced with a tragedy far beyond that of mere murder.

Your Obedient Servant,  
O.G.

Richard was reading over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, eyes widened. "But, Armand—"

"Yes, I know," Moncharim interrupted. "It looks as if our Ghost has gone quite mad." Both managers looked down at the note within their hands, and breathed a sigh in chorus.

"How are you to avoid doing something you haven't done in the first place?" Richard asked beneath his breath.

Moncharim crumpled the note in his fingers, and dropped it wearily to the floor. "I'm quite sure I don't know, Firmin," he answered. As the inspector began mounting the stairs, eyes already attached anxiously to the two managers, Moncharim added under his breath, "I suppose we shall just have to hope that whatever was keeping the man peaceful these last five days shall return to him, and soon."

Richard snorted, and added equally quietly, "Yes, hopefully before he realizes his salary is due."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

My hands trembled within each other's grasps, as I made my slow way to Christine's dressing room. Even the thought of that sapphire gaze being so firmly fixed upon my own caused my very heart to stumble in its beat; where my own morals were concerned, right may have blurred easily together with wrong, but she had firmly-fixed beliefs, and it was her judgment that concerned me, not my own nor that of God Above's. I was certain that she would cast me one righteous glance, and send me withering back into the depths of hell where I truly belonged.

As a result of my trepidation, I must admit to constant procrastination in all the morning's events; because of this, I arrived at her dressing-room door just as she was stepping out into the corridor. So perfectly timed was my arrival and her departure, in fact, that we collided.

"Oh!" she cried, stumbling back from me with a horrified expression. To my relief, however, once she had seen who I was, she visibly relaxed.

"Mademoiselle," I said quickly, "I beg of you to forgive me. I was, I am afraid, not paying any attention..."

"Oh, Monsieur!" she wailed, unexpectedly falling against my chest and wrapping her soft little arms around my neck, as that sweet face buried itself into the crook of my neck. "Monsieur, have you not heard?"

I stiffened beneath her grasp, completely unsure of what was expected of me. Her head leaned back, eyes finding mine, and my right hand slowly, timorously pressed itself between her shoulder blades. As my heart began to beat a staccato rhythm, I attempted a voice without tremor (though I doubt I was successful). "Heard what, Christine? Are... Are you alright? Has something happened?"

Her arms tightened around me, as her face plummeted once more towards my shoulder. "It's horrible!" It took me a moment to recognize that waver in her voice, but once I had, I felt very much as if I should have been upon the gallows just then, instead of guiltily standing within her arms: she was crying! Weeping for the death of a man she did not—could not ever have known!

Or perhaps she wept only because she feared me, the Phantom?

"What is it?" I demanded of her. "What's happened?"

Slowly her head drew back, eyes fastening upon my shirt collar. "Louis Grandec," she whispered, sniffling. "Strangled by the Ghost."

My lips parted in a studied look of dumbfounded horror, and my hands moved to fasten upon her upper arms. "You jest!"

"No, Monsieur!" she responded, voice flying towards the higher ends of her scale—and she was not a soprano for nothing. "It is true! He has killed again, and for—for me!"

My heart skipped a beat, and then another, and then another. For a moment, I feared it would never begin again. She knew about the note. She knew—she knew, and how long would it take her before the passionate words of that note would be compared and contrasted to my passionate words from the night at the lake? How long before she made that fatal connection? Despite common opinions of Victorian women, I had seen the spark of intelligence behind her beautiful eyes. I had heard her when in the throes of ecstasy over some beautiful work—she _would_ make the connection.

It was only my good fortune that she was, as of yet, too horrified to consider what had happened. "Whatever do you mean, Mademoiselle?" I asked after a long, long pause. So concentrated was I on remembering to keep my expression in a state of horror, that I very nearly forgot to respond.

Christine drew her arms from around my neck, tiny hands wiping forlornly at her tears. "I will show you," she said softly, drawing the note from her pocket and handing it to me. "The inspector," she continued, in subdued tone, "he let me take it, when they had finished with it..."

I stared at the envelope for a long time before opening it. It seemed so odd to look upon it from so detached a position; I felt as if I knew, now, what it was that the members of the Garnier felt whenever one of these fateful letters found its way into their hands. So long had I watched them from rafters; it was not until now that I was the watched.

I unfolded the letter and allowed my eyes to run across every line, though I did not need to read it. The memory of that night would burn upon my mind for a long time yet to come. When my gaze reached my signature, I folded the letter away again and turned widened eyes upon Christine.

"You see, Monsieur?" She plucked the letter from my fingertips, and once more tucked it away within the folds of her skirts. "You were, indeed, mistaken in believing yourself to be my greatest of fans. This ... man, this Phantom—he is quite the fanatic, Monsieur!"

Tears were building in her eyes again. Reaching up to dash them away only brought for a desperate sob from her, and without thinking I enfolded her in my warm embrace. She sank quickly against my chest, crying loudly into my shirt. Oh, how wonderful it felt, to hold her—to offer comfort in time of need, and have it be so quickly accepted!

Never once did it occur to me to feel guilty for having been the one to put her in this state. No, on the contrary, I felt much less guilty than I had previously—thanks to the Phantom in me, the man in me was being given a chance at deepening the trust between myself and Christine. I was being given a chance to redeem myself, to undo whatever harm may have been done that night on the lake.

We stood in that corridor in each other's arms for many a long minute, she crying softly, I breathing deeply of that perfect scent, trying to imprint this memory on my mind forever while I murmured gentle words of comfort. My voice was muffled, for my lips remained pressed against her hair, but I do not think the words themselves mattered; it was only the tone, the meaning behind the words. As with an animal, she did not need specific words to be calmed and reassured—she needed only the intent.

With a shaky breath, she drew back from me, hands again wiping furiously at the tears gathered beneath her eyes. "Merci, Monsieur," she murmured, eyes downcast. "If you will forgive me, I think I should like to go home, now..."

Nodding, I stepped aside, but as she passed me I fell into step beside her. "Would you like for me to walk you home, Mademoiselle?"

She thought about it for a long time, and then turned her head and looked up at me with a smile that very nearly sent me to my knees. "Oui, Monsieur. That would be.. wonderful."

* * *

A slight darkness veiled our journey down the streets of Paris. Lamps had not yet been lit, but the sun was quickly dipping behind the rooftops, casting long shadows across the quickly emptying streets. This was the Paris I knew, the Paris I was familiar with; once, long ago, had I traveled the streets in the daylight, when they bustled and teemed with bourgeoisie society. So much easier to travel the streets now, when the lanes were open and invited one to stroll as casually as one pleased, rather than being forced to dart in and out of the traffic like some maddened insect trying desperately not to be crushed by the masses.

Not that being crushed had ever been much of a fear for me, in those days—I was generally given a relatively wide berth, in those days when I had been young and brash enough to walk around with my mask on full display. However, the principle was still the same.

"Will you be alright, Christine?" I asked as we walked, turning a concerned look in her direction.

"Oui, Monsieur," she responded, smiling a little. We did not speak for a length of time, she preoccupied in her despair, and myself too preoccupied in _her_. I allowed my hands to slip into my trouser pockets, and found my so-very-human shoulders giving a little shiver in the crisp air. I tipped my head back to look at the sky, allowed my senses to taste the night air.

"It will snow tonight," I said absently.

There was a long pause, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw her head swivel to look at me. She regarded me steadily for another moment, before asking bluntly, "Who _are _you?"

I gave a little shrug, head inclining towards the ground before me. Discomfort swept through me, instilling in me the profound desire to squirm about. "No one, really, Mademoiselle."

Christine began immediately shaking her head, golden curls bouncing about. "No, no, Monsieur, you cannot escape the question so easily this time. Please, Monsieur—tell me."

"There is nothing to tell," I said sharply, putting a quick end to the discussion. Meekness immediately returned to my angel, and she fell utterly silent. Misery began pronouncing itself in my chest, misery at my own temper, my own sharp tongue. I had hurt her, and I hated myself for it.

She seemed to recover quickly enough, however, for not long afterwards she was asking another question of me. "Monsieur, where do you live?"

Why all the questions I could not answer? With a sigh, I said, "Not far from here, Mademoiselle."

Undaunted, she repeated, "Where?"

One shoulder lifted in a shrug. "A rather unremarkable place, on the Rue Chaveau-Lagarde."

"Oh." She seemed disappointed; attempting to try again, she asked, "And your family?"

"Dead," I said blandly; it was difficult to invoke emotion in a matter about which you could have cared less. "I did not know my father, and my mother died before I came to Paris."

"No siblings?"

"None." Thank God—being an imperfect child had been torture enough. What horrors would have been granted me, had I been an imperfect child amongst perfect ones?

Carefully, she asked, "Are you.. lonely, Monsieur?"

Immediately, without considering, I answered, "Well of course I am lonely."

She looked down, as if embarrassed, but plowed ever onwards, though her voice became softer. "Why did you wait so long, Monsieur? You are.. beyond the age at which most seek out a bride." She flicked a glance at me, as if to find whether she would be punished for such a question.

I breathed a forlorn sigh, head drooping. "That is a long and painful story, and an impossible one to repeat, Mademoiselle."

I could feel her hesitation, but she refused to give up. Determined, she said, "Was it fortune? Did you fear that, without station, you would find no bride unless you had a fortune to your name? I know many men do not—"

"No," I interrupted. "That was perhaps a little of it, but it was certainly not why I waited so long."

"Then why, Monsieur?" she asked immediately, one hand reaching out to touch lightly against my arm.

I glanced away from her, off into the dark streets to our left. "There were certain circumstances, up until now, that made me.. unfit for marriage, Mademoiselle," I said darkly.

"What—"

"I would prefer not to discuss it," I growled. I was beginning to feel as if she were backing me into a corner. When I risked a glance in her direction, I found her studying me with unabashed compassion.

"As you wish, Monsieur," she murmured. "As you wish..."

* * *

_**A/N  
**__For those of you who are Princess Bride fans, I hope you catch that little connotation!_


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

It was upon my return home that my newest experiment was set to begin. In an interest of saving myself the time and pain associated with the constant transformations my face and body were forced to undergo, I had decided to attempt renewing the dosage before its effects wore off. It was a relatively basic principle, employed in everyday circumstances with simple pain medications—one replenished the prescribed amount shortly before the former one had run out. My only fear was that this principle would not so readily apply to such a questionable drug as this one, and thus had I chosen to perform the experiment within the safety of my tomb, far from every human gaze, where, should the experiment go awry, no harm would be done.

That was assuming, of course, that I would not suffer some permanent and irrevocable damage to my own person.

It was late in the evening when I slunk down the Rue Scribe, headed in furtive silence towards the entrance to the lake. I had just pulled my hat down over my face and ducked quickly beneath the light of a streetlamp when a too-familiar voice called uncertainly, "Erik?"

I froze, giving myself away without even meaning to. Had I kept moving, he'd have assumed I was just some thief perhaps, intent upon gaining back entrance to the splendor of the Garnier. However, foolish Erik had to pause in the wake of Nadir's suspicion, and present myself to his insufferable self-righteousness once more.

Seeing no point in attempting to escape his attentions now, I turned slowly to face the aging Persian as he rushed towards my shadowy form. "Erik, we must speak immediately!" he said breathlessly, face contorted in angry indignation. I had expected such a visit from him since the moment I had chosen to take vengeance upon that innocent stagehand; one could not expect the incident to stay out of the papers, and once Nadir had seen it (and he always did), he would move immediately to berate me for such an action.

"Yes, Daroga?" I said wearily, throwing my weight against the lamppost. "What is it now?"

"Erik, you know very well what—Dear God!" He halted in his steps and went so far as to take a step backwards, looking in unabashed shock at my face. Uncertainty now contorted his features, as I smiled, and again tucked my hands into my pockets.

"I must admit, Daroga, I haven't the time for this. If you would please get on with things?"

Attempting to regain composure, he scrubbed his face roughly with both hands. "Erik, I do not understand! You... Your face! It is..." He faltered.

"A scientific anomaly," I answered lightly. "I do not honestly know the reason for it myself, Daroga."

Seeming to have recalled, suddenly, what his original purpose had been, his tan face immediately turned red-hot with anger. A finger pointed determinedly in my direction. "Face or no face," he snapped, "you killed that man, Erik!"

I turned my head away, cocking it slightly to one side. "What man, Daroga?"

"You know what man!" he spat. "Allah be merciful, Erik, that man had done nothing to you!"

One shoulder lifted in a shrug. I could feel the heat rising in my chest, threatening to flush my cheeks; I looked down, allowing the brim of my hat to cast shadow across my face, and hoped he would not see that telltale blush. Never had I blushed before—of course, never had I had the blood for it—but certainly I had rarely felt the compulsion to do so, until tonight. I had expected to feel such a way beneath Christine's attentions; instead, I felt it beneath Nadir's.

"I have killed no such man, Daroga," I replied warily. "You are allowing the paper's silly fancies to go to your head again." Turning critical eye upon him, I smirked and asked, "Not been drinking, have you, Daroga?"

His head was already shaking furiously. "Do not," he warned. "Do not, Erik! I shall go to the police!"

I laughed—I could not help but laugh. "Don't be silly, Daroga. What will you tell them? That you have had tea in the Opera Ghost's lair many a time, and thus can easily show them where it is hidden?"

Nadir was shaking his finger at me again; that was beginning to be annoying. "Do not think I will hesitate to—"

Swiftly, I launched myself from the post, and circled him; I was behind him before he had even realized I was moving. Fingers still far longer than the average human's brushed lightly across the front of his throat, a threat that he could not have misread. "Hesitate to do what, Daroga?" I whispered in his ear, before completing my circuit and resuming my stance at the post.

He was staring at me with horror written across his face, and I felt a twinge of guilt. It had been many a long year since I had threatened him in such a fashion, and immediately I felt ashamed of myself for so quickly resorting to hostilities when I did, in fact, know perfectly well that he would never reduce himself to going to the police.

"Go home, Daroga," I said wearily, as I flipped open his pocket watch and peered critically at the time. "The hour grows late."

He snatched the watch from my hand, stuffing it fussily back into his chest pocket. "I will be watching you, Erik," he warned.

I could not help but offer him a fond, affectionate smile, before turning and vanishing into the shadows.

Two and a half hours later, I sat upon a stool in my laboratory, staring as I had been for such a long time at the little pile of powder that was so carefully arranged within a petri dish. Admittedly, my nerves were not quite made of steel at this point; the basic fear that I would cast myself into some unfathomable depth of pain was not one that sat well with my stomach. It was human instinct to fear pain, and while I had mastered my senses to the point that I largely could control such fears, this one for some inexplicable reason was causing my hand to linger hesitantly over the needle for far longer than was normal.

Eventually, however, I forced myself to mix the powder, draw it into the needle, and inject it into that familiar vein. I held my breath for nearly an entire circuit of the second hand upon my wristwatch, before letting it out in a great gust of relief. There was no pain, there was no agitation of the skin, no numbing cold sweeping through my limbs. One minute, of course, was not sufficient for a scientific decision to be come to; however, it was sufficient to put me at momentary rest with myself.

I stood slowly, and walked into the kitchen. There was a vague disorientation that was perceived by a slight swimming of the vision and a ringing of the ears; however, I hoped that it was merely a manifestation of holding my breath for such a lengthy amount of time, and then immediately standing and launching my overtired body into motion. I set the kettle to boil, and prepared a teacup for the coming arrival of the hot water.

While waiting, I leaned myself against the kitchen counter. Slowly, the disorientation was fading; the tingling sensation that had for a moment swept my limbs had all but vanished, and I became aware of a persistent pressure against my right calf.

Bending, I lifted the purring Ayesha and began to stroke her absently. Her face pushed against my chin, and the purring accelerated. I allowed a tiny chuckle, and gave her another few pets before returning her to the floor. The kettle began to whistle, and I rushed to sweep it from the burner and dispense its boiling contents into my cup.

As if from the perspective of a third party, I watched as the kettle slipped from my fingers' grasp and crashed into the cup, rolling unsteadily and then falling to the floor, where both it and its hot contents narrowly missed the cat. I staggered backwards, catching myself up a kitchen chair—which promptly began to fall with me, and both of us collided with the floor. I felt myself floating upwards even as I watched myself falling downwards, watched my head thump against the tiles and give one sickening bounce.

I played spectator to my wretched form curling up on itself, observed that shuddering frame as it promptly became viciously sick. Pain was nonexistent; when one is not oneself, one cannot feel the pain that one knows one must indeed be feeling. It was the horror of metamorphosis, exaggerated and then subtracted from, for the amount of my suffering was tenfold but the fact that I could experience none of it firsthand was, oddly, a very much appreciated bonus.

As I watched, I began to sense a fuzzying of vision; slowly, blackness began to appear around the edges of my eyes, and soon I could see nothing but my face, warped and twisted in utter torment. Even that did not last long; shortly after the skin began to bubble and contort, the blackness took me completely. It was beginning to be a relatively irritating sensation, this unconsciousness—it happened far too often these past few days.

* * *

I became aware of a sliver of light, sharp and vicious, cutting horizontal lines across my vision. First instinct was to escape it, but it seemed to be persistent in its presence, and I seemed incapable of movement. Slowly, my eyelids began to flutter, and I felt as if I could almost sense warm, soft cushions beneath me, and the heat of a fire on my right.

Suddenly, I felt as if I were moving, and immediately became motion-sick. The urge to be sick was a strong one, but there was nothing within me to sacrifice, and so I merely choked on unattractive spittle. My head lolled to one side, and a vicious cough racked my frame.

The warmth of the fire was gone, as was the comfort of the cushions. I felt as if I were floating, in an unperceivable direction. Another warmth soon began to make itself apparent, this time a moist one. Moments later, it intensified and surrounded me, and I felt as if I were soaking in a sea of heat.

Abruptly, I was plucked from that heat, and I felt a chill began to grow. If I had thought that a chill, it was only because I was unprepared for the vicious, icy, bone-wrenching cold that I was shortly thereafter plunged into. I let out a cry, and my eyes managed to open. I found myself in a makeshift tub, freezing, my muscles contorting with angry shivers.

Firm hands dragged me from that cold, and redistributed me in the heat. I sank into that warmth gratefully, allowing it to chase away the freezing sensation my limbs had taken on.

As my vision cleared, I weakly looked up to find Nadir's face hovering anxiously above me. "Erik?" he called, voice sounding as if it were miles distant. "Can you hear me?"

"Barely," I said—or at least, tried to say. My lips refused to properly respond, however, and I am afraid to say that instead of such a word, he received little more than a confused mumble in reply.

It seemed to be enough for his satisfaction, however, because he turned away from the tub. Upon turning back, I found him to be possessing of soaps; discomfort immediately took me, and I managed to look down at myself. Shocked to find my body completely bare of clothes, I tried to cover myself, but to no avail; my limbs still could not function as I willed them to.

"You were beginning to stink—...but it's good to see you awake," he said brusquely, as he lathered his hands and began a dispassionate, methodical cleansing of me. He chattered on while he worked, and I swam in and out of consciousness. As a result, I caught only half of what he said, and even that seemed muddled and confused. Somehow his voice tied me to reality, however, and by the time he was draining the water and helping me out of the tub, I was able to stay completely in his world.

Three weeks, he said, I had been out cold. Occasionally I had surfaced to mutter and thrash about, crying out a woman's name and grasping madly at anything within my reach. Only minutes would that last, he told me, and then I would fall back into what he could only describe as a coma.

_Three weeks. _Christine could have become engaged to the Vicomte by now! Three weeks that I had been absent from her world, absent from the Garnier. Did she still hold her position as lead soprano? Did she even still sing in the Garnier at all? What if she had been whisked away by her charming prince, taken to some lofty chateau where I would never see her again?

Numbly, I allowed him to lead me back to the study, where he returned me to the couch, and the fire. He brought me a bowl of broth, and carefully fed me upon realizing that I could not do it on my own. He got through only a third of the bowl, however, before I feebly took it away from him and began to ladle the spoonfuls into my mouth with painstaking caution.

I refused to be babysat by him for a moment longer.

Three days more, he remained in my home, acting as an almost-friend, taking care of me in such a way that suggested he did so merely out of moral obligation, and not from any real affection for me. I tried not to ponder what would have happened to me, had Nadir not been keeping close (though suspicious) eye on my movements in the Garnier.

When he had left, and when I felt strong enough to risk a journey back to the surface, I dressed in my usual cloak, hat, and mask, and began the laborious journey upwards. I did not endanger myself or my still-recovering body further by attempting to use the mysterious powder; I did not wish to be seen, anyway, and the mask fit so much more comfortably without the face.

I was angered to find that Christine had been pushed back to a minor role, though they had not gone so far as to risk placing her back in the chorus. She seemed to be bearing it well, for she moved with dignity and refused to pay mind to the jabs from Carlotta and her cronies. Considering the open hostility, I assumed she had not long been considered out from beneath the Phantom's protection. I wished now that Nadir were still around, for my insatiable curiosity demanded to be told of the exact date of her demotion.

As I began my descent into the depths, I passed a once-familiar corridor, and paused. Looking down that lonely lane, I found myself impossibly tempted, and was forced to make my weary way down it. Already my breath was coming more quickly than usual, the oxygen burning my lungs. I was too old for this; my body had seen far too much in recent times. I wished only to sink down into my coffin and sleep for an entire day, Ayesha purring loyally at my side. However, that lane beckoned, and thus did I follow it.

It ended at a glass wall, giving foggy vision of Christine, seated at her vanity. Fingers plucked idly at her hair, as if attempting to do something with it, though nothing was being accomplished. She sighed suddenly, and dropped her chin into her hand. Slowly, her head pivoted to stare around the room wistfully. "First my angel," she whispered, "and now Erik..."

My heart leapt, upon hearing her use my name. Never had she said "Erik"—always "Monsieur Sartre," and that name hardly felt like my own. But _Erik_... That was a name to which my heartstrings readily responded.

I pressed a hand against that cruel glass, and had almost considered calling out to her, when there came a knock upon her door.

"Come in," she called, voice immediately taking on that deceiving lightheartedness.

I expected the Vicomte, and was poised for anger, when instead the cheerful face of little Meg Giry peaked around the edge of the door. Both girls let out a little giggle at some unknown delight, and Meg quickly slipped into the room.

"Christine, I'm so excited!" she said immediately, and I saw Christine make half-hearted attempt at enthusiasm. Meg grasped her hands, and clutched them tightly. "You are going to the masquerade ball, are you not?"

Christine hesitated. "I am not sure," she confessed with a frown. "Raoul wishes it; he has even offered to buy my costume—a black domino, and he a white."

Meg seemed baffled. "And yet you are not sure? Who would say no, to a Vicomte?"

My little soprano shrugged, and looked askance. "That is a wonderful question, Meg..."

I felt my heart beginning to beat hard in my chest, and with much regret, was forced to turn and make the rest of the journey back home. The exertion had been too much for me, but already I could tell my strength was returning. I had made a dire mistake, yes, but not an irrevocable one. By the time of the masquerade, I would be well on the way back to my former glory. It would not be for some time to come; traditionally, they were held at the beginning of the new season, and while the days would pass quickly enough that I could not dawdle, I also did not need to feel pressed for time. And that was perfect, for there was much work yet to be done, many preparations yet to be made.

The first would be re-obtaining Christine's company—and, more importantly, her station in the opera house...


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

It was a shame, that the woman had to die as sacrifice for the greater cause.

Truthfully, though dimly aware of the overwhelming odds of some poor unfortunate's death, it had never truly occurred to me that a soul should be offered up unto the heavens as payment, as invocation, of what I wished to come to pass. When all efforts were so blatantly deterred, it seemed my only option, my final, desperate move to accomplish my goals, and it worked—of course. However, I could not presume to attempt convincing you that I felt free of guilt for my actions; on the other hand, I shed a tear for the beauty I had destroyed.

And by beauty, I refer not to the woman who was surrendered unto her Maker.

Alas, I get ahead of myself; allow me to explain in full the events leading up to this "tragedy of tragedies".

Upon deciding that I should make every endeavor to restore Christine's operatic standing, and my own administrative standing, it was decided that my first course of action should be my usual one—threat through correspondence. And why not? It was a plot that had been successful on numerous occasions, failing me only a few times, and never twice in a row. After resting for many an hour in my dreary home, I took a pen and paper to my writing desk, and sat down to make out several pointed letters, detailing my opinion of the cast, crew, and management—the usual, mostly, with no lack of careful intimidation woven between the lines.

I was appalled, the next day, to find the letters circulating through Management's office, causing several good chuckles, and ending their little sojourn in the waste bin. Infuriated, I stole them from the bin directly beneath their noses (causing quite a scene, I should like to say), and immediately returned home to compose far more to-the-point notes.

With each cycle, my words grew harsher, and all to no avail. I considered another killing, but part of my soul still quivered from the last—and, I did not trust my still-recovering strength, for already I was pushing it to its limits, and it seemed guaranteed to fail me any day now. There would be no end to the embarrassment, should I fall to my knees in a stroke while in the middle of an altercation with a stage hand. Inspired more by the latter than ever I could be by the former, I laid out my plans for the second step of coercion: sabotage.

Backdrops fell upon startled singers (but of course, never my darling Christine). Sandbags mysteriously split open, spilling their contents upon cast and crew alike. Catwalks swayed dangerously when those with whom I had former disagreements walked upon them. The managers lost all number of items, from Richard's fountain pen, to Moncharim's cuff links. Both their top hats vanished and reappeared within a day, repeating their act several more times on each manager's journey home. Singers of whom I did not approve fell ill; costumes and entire wardrobes went missing; two ballerinas broke their ankles (though I was careful to not lay a single finger upon Mademoiselle Giry); and still, Christine had not been moved from the chorus—she was not even playing the role of understudy!

Finally, it had become obvious that more drastic measures would need to be taken. I sent a final letter, warning that if she should not sing the lead in the next opera, then there should be the worst of tragedies to befall the Garnier, and it was no idle threat.

In between my busy hours within the bowels of the opera house, I spent what time I could with Christine. My absence was explained away as a visit to England, to see an old friend of mine who had taken ill, and requested that I call on him before he became too ill to accept company. She inquired politely about his health, but asked few other questions about him. I was grateful for that, and in turn asked her several questions about her guardian, her career, and the Vicomte.

The first two I received little enough answer to: "She is well, _merci_," and "No better than could be expected, I suppose, Monsieur." The third inquiry, however, was met with a sidelong glance, and then a quiet sigh. "Would you care to walk in the park with me, Monsieur?"

I checked my wristwatch, and frowned. I had an appointment in two hours with a closet full of rehearsal costumes, but, upon seeing her widened and begging eyes, could not bring myself to deny her. I graciously took her arm, and led her down the boulevard.

The hour was growing late, and the moon already held claim to Paris's sky. I watched her drift in a milky glow, shining as if truly the angel I thought her to be. She drifted slowly towards a fountain, peeling off one glove to trace ripples across the water's surface.

I chided her for exposing herself to the cold, dried her hand on my sleeve, and immediately tucked her hand back into the glove. With a sigh, she turned away from me, and moved to the other side of the fountain. "Many things have happened since you went away, Monsieur," she said softly, eyes never leaving the sky's distorted aquatic reflection.

"So I have heard," I said carefully, hands poised on the fountain's lip, eyes boring into her. There was something she was struggling to say—I could hear it in her voice—and it pained me to think of all it could be.

"Many things have happened, Monsieur, in my own life as well—not just in that of Paris. She experiences great turmoil, Monsieur—as do I." Her eyes flicked up at me for just a moment, and then retreated back to the fountain.

I was unsure of whether I wished to know the answer or not, but I took a steadying breath, and asked it of her anyway. "What is the matter, Christine?"

She hesitated for a long moment, before turning her eyes down to her hands, and shedding a silent tear. "The Vicomte de Chagny... Oh, Erik, Raoul has asked me to marry him."

The world, quite quickly, dropped from beneath my feet. I believe I gave a physical lurch, for she looked up at me suddenly with eyes brimming with concern, and quickly closed the distance between us. "Please, Monsieur, do not look so distraught!"

"No, no..." I said quickly, not wanting her to think me a presumptuous old man. "I am merely.. shocked... That is all, Christine..."

Her tiny hands wrapped around my upper arm, and she looked up at me pleadingly. "I have not given him an answer, Monsieur," she whispered urgently. "I was awaiting your return, Erik—waiting to see if you would return at all."

Bitterness swept me, and try though I might, I could not fully suffocate it. "What should my return have to do with your betrothal?" I asked sharply.

She physically flinched at the tone of my voice, but her hands did not stray from their grip. "Oh, Erik... For a man so wise as you, you are so ignorant!" Her hands pushed lightly on me, propelling her body away; she soon had her back to me, and was bent over the fountain.

"Christine?" I thought that I understood her words, but if I did, then the meaning of them was.. preposterous—and therefore doubted my ability to divine her meaning. "I.. do not understand..." I reached out a hand for her elbow, and she did not pull away.

She turned her head to look at me, and gave a very strange smile. "No, Erik," she murmured, "of course you don't."

Our bodies grew closer, as if expanding, reaching for one another, and soon she had turned and was facing me again. Closer... and closer... I could not believe what I had heard, and yet it seemed that there was no way to misconstrue such evidence. Suddenly, I was struck, and gave a quick and insistent plea: "Do not wed the Vicomte!"

Christine laughed, then, in the way that only a woman can laugh, when she knows she has more understanding of her gentleman than even he does. A hand pressed against my cheek, and she said something, but her words were drowned out by the peal of the church bells.

She went still, and listened; I could see her counting the rings. When finally they stopped, she gave a little cry, and gathered up her skirts in her hands. "Oh, Monsieur, I must go—Madame will be worried!" Without another word, she rushed away from me, half-running across snow-slick pavement. I watched with my heart in my throat. "Come to the opera next opening night!" she called, running backwards for a moment to speak to me. "Perhaps you will see me perform—I will be the one so far back, you cannot even tell I am blonde!"

"I shall be there!" I called to her. _And I shall be far more involved in the performance than you think, Mademoiselle. _

"Marvelous!" And then, laughing, she disappeared into the night.

* * *

At the opera, in my "box"—a dusty corner within the dome of the Garnier, at a peephole near to the chandelier—I was not at all pleased to discover that Christine was, indeed, once again a member of the chorus. It was as she had said, as well—somehow, they had managed to make her not only obscure, but even more obscure than the other obscurities. My teeth clacked together angrily, and I pushed away, resolving to watch as little of the proceedings as possible. 

I allowed the first bit of the performance to go on without consequence. I could see the managers beginning to congratulate themselves; they had not given in, and of course, nothing would happen, because I was only a joke! A superstition, at best! Smiling to myself as best I could beneath the mask, I drifted into position, and pressed my hands to my lips.

When that hideous _croak _came from Carlotta's silver throat, the entire audience gave a singular, collective gasp. I nearly chuckled aloud with glee, but managed to hold in my pleasure, and instead prepared myself for another ghastly _croak_. As if rehearsed, she gave another tentative try at singing—and was, of course, met only by failure. After a few more embarrassing attempts, she ran screaming from the stage, and I allowed my laughter to burst forth and fill the stage with its mirth.

A few steps, and I was crouched within the managers' box, cackling with glee, the sound flowing all around them. "Behold!" I cried, too lost in my giddiness to hold my tongue. "She is singing to bring down the chandelier!"

I slipped away from them quickly, making the short trip to the chandelier, and giving a might slash to that one fateful rope that held all others in place. With a groan and a sickening lurch, the beauty, the pride of the Garnier, went crashing downwards and into the audience. I heard many screams, and when I looked upon my handiwork, saw only one face still in the chaos. Christine stood midstage, eyes widened, face gaunt and pale. She looked at the burning chandelier with something almost like recognition in her eyes—and then, amazingly, her eyes rose and found me, my dark shape, crouched above the wreckage and the ruin, and laughing insanely.

My throat constricted, and I immediately fell silent. Surely, she had not recognized my laughter? What foolishness would that be? No, it was impossible!

And then I saw him, pushing through those who were running offstage, fleeing to her side and wrapping protective arms around her. Raoul hugged her close for a moment, before dragging her away, towards her dressing room.

As she ran, she had eyes only for me.

I pursued them, falling into place behind the mirror only seconds before the door was thrust open, and both of them spilled within. "Oh, Raoul!" she cried, sagging against his chest. "Everything is so horrible!"

"You should leave, Christine," he insisted, and from the sound of things it was a common argument. "The man is obviously insane—we must get you free of this place, before something happens to you!"

Instinctively, with nary a thought to the consequences, I allowed a quiet croon to ease forth from my lips. Raoul heard it only as background sound, his mind quickly explaining it away as something within an adjacent room. _Oh, Vicomte—if only you knew how right you were! _

Christine, however, went rigid. She immediately dragged herself from his arms, and sank into the chair in front of her mirror. "Leave me," she said in a tight voice. "I shall speak with you on the morrow."

"But, Christine—"

"No, Raoul," she said firmly. "I am tired—leave me, please."

No sooner had she gone, than she was prostrate before the mirror. "Angel, I hear you!" she cried, tiny hands pressing firmly against the mirror. "Please, my Angel, come to me!"

I crouched down, my hands dancing against her own, tracing those tiny handprints and wishing for all the world that I could touch them in truth. When I remained silent for too long, she drew back a bit, and looked firmly into the mirror. "My Angel, _please_!"

In booming voice, the Angel spoke, and he said, "You will stay away from the boy," in the coldest of tones. I trembled, even, at the anger in his voice, and though I tried to restrain him, he would show her no kindness. "You belong to me, Christine—and to no other!"

The Angel swept away from her, fleeing to the dark recesses of his world and dragging me along with him, though my heart remained with her, on the floor of her dressing room, and soaked in her piteous tears...

* * *

_ A/N_

_Yeah, sorry about the long wait, guys!_ _I had a huge issue with inspiration--but that's fixed now, I think, because I've got tons of ideas again. Can't wait to get this thing going again--and I hope you feel the same way!_


	9. Chapter 9

http/perso. size=1 width=100% noshade>Chapter 9

My hands trembled as I penned my note to Christine. The excitement from the night prior left my nerves shaken; apparently, not all of me recovered from _the ordeal _as much as I had hoped.

It was a long night, after retreating into my little hole beneath the ground. I spent many a fitful hour tossing (as much as one may, in a bed of such confined quarters) and turning, struggling with half-dreams that left me as frightened as a child. The lack of sleep, coupled with my exertions, was not in the least agreeable with my health; however, no choice was left to me: I had to push onwards with my efforts, for so much was still to be done!

When the letter had been completed to my specifications, I lent back and gave it a final once-over with narrowed, scrupulous eyes.

_Dearest Christine,  
I hope you shall offer me the forgiveness I do not deserve, for taking such a long and unexplained absence. I have missed you dearly, and hope to see you soon, that I may explain to the extent that is possible my reasons for departing so abruptly, and for so long a time. If you would meet me at the Bois de Boulogne this afternoon immediately following rehearsals, then I would know you had forgiven me—or were at least willing to hear my reasons.  
My brougham will await you outside the Garnier, to grant you passage should you so desire it. I believe you shall recognize it—if not, look for the "horse from the Profeta"._

_Warmest regards, etc.,  
Erik._

With a final nod of approval, I sealed the note and tucked it into my breast pocket. I briefly considered having it sent in the old-fashioned way, but instead chose (as usually I did) the more dramatic of methods. I made the slow climb up into the Garnier, and took up residence behind her mirror. She had just finished dressing for rehearsal—this time, I noted pleasantly, in the costume of the lead rather than that of a chorus girl—and was giving herself a final once-over at her vanity.

I saw sullen eyes dart towards the mirror, saw those eyes cloud over with tears. To her credit, however, she blinked them away before they could interfere with what little stage makeup was afforded to rehearsals, and then with a deep breath she darted from the room.

I waited for only a breath's time, and then slipped through the mirror-door and advanced hastily to her vanity. The letter was propped between brush and mirror, and I had just turned to go when something bid me pause. I took another look around her room, and my body began to go utterly still. I found myself incapable of movement, when suddenly so surrounded with everything that was hers. Her brush, with several golden strands still tangled in its bristles; with the patience of a father, I gently plucked them free and discarded of them.

Her dresses—several of her costumes, and one of her own street-dresses—hung on a rack to one side. I moved over to them, brushing my fingers across the fine material, allowing my hands to linger upon the fur of her wrap, to float lovingly against the lace upon her hat, to grace the tiny feather that crowned it. I allowed my ravaged lips a tiny smile beneath that mask, as I moved from clothing to dresser again, now lifting her perfume bottle and allowing myself a tiny whiff. Oh, that smell... The same that haunted me in my dreams, mocking that which I could not forever wrap my senses around.

I picked up her gloves, cast so carelessly aside, and laid one against my own palm. How tiny her hands were! Hardly half the length of my own, though mine were so slender that they did not far outweigh hers in width. I curled my fingers around the empty ones of her glove, and held it for a moment, before berating myself for my foolishness and setting them back where I had found them—though I admit, significantly more neatly than they had been.

I had again turned to go, when my eyes found something else: a photograph, framed and set lovingly aside. It was a younger man, and handsome; at first, I feared the worst, and moved towards it with a quickly-growing anger. However, upon closer inspection, it was found to be not the Vicomte, but a different man. He looked almost familiar, though I was certain I had never seen him before. I stared at him a long while before recognizing certain features; the cheekbones, the bridge of the nose, the curve of the eyebrows. The fellow looked very nearly like Christine, only with features far more masculine; her father, then? It was certainly believable...

Muscles went rigid as, suddenly, I heard the door click. Before I could even take a step in the direction of the open mirror, the door swung open, to reveal an extraordinarily shocked Christine. Her eyes took in first the mask, and then immediately locked onto what she, apparently, felt to be far more important: that which I held in my hands.

She did not scream, as I would have expected. Instead, with trembling limbs, she held out a hand and took a frightened step towards me. "Please," she managed, voice struggling to escape from cords constricted by fear. "Please, Monsieur—my father's picture." This time, her voice sounded a bit stronger. "It is very important to me..."

I knew not what to do. I could not speak—if she did not recognize Erik's voice, still she would recognize the angel's, and I wanted this masked figure, the one who had brought down the chandelier, to be linked to neither (although without a doubt she was smart enough to link angel and chandelier, I wanted not at all to help her solidify that connection).

I saw that she was crying, though whether it was from fear or concern I know not. "Please," she sobbed. "Please, give it back..." Her hand thrust forwards a little farther, as if to demand that for which her vocals begged.

Slowly, cautiously, I began to push the hand holding the photograph towards her. When it had nearly spanned the distance, she darted forwards and snatched it from me, as if not trusting me to give it to her on my own. When it had been won, she clutched it tightly to her chest, and took several hasty steps backwards. It was not until she had gained her prize that she began to take in the rest of the situation: the open mirror, the letter on her vanity, the objects that had been moved about and touched. A shudder ran over her frame. Lips parted to speak, but before sound could emit, I saw Meg enter the doorframe.

"Christine, what—" Her inquiry broke off when she saw me, and hardly a moment's pause was afforded her before her vocals resumed their exercise, with not more inquiry but instead an ear-shattering scream. Abandoning the letter to fate, I turned and fled back through the mirror, just in time to hear Christine wheeling to hush Meg.

"Wait!"

And then I was through the mirror, the door had closed, and I was fleeing down through passageways back to the safety of my lair. Upon reaching it, I collapsed on the far shore of the lake, my breath whistling in my throat as I struggled for the oxygen that my abused heart so needed. I thought for a moment that I would be sick, but it passed as I slowly began to catch my breath.

I had truly made a mess of things. I had only to hope that she would, somehow, not suspect the Phantom of having planted the note there upon her vanity—but how could she not? Would she come to the Bois? ...Did I want her to? What if she came full of questions, full of accusations? But what if she did not come at all? Which was worse?

I pushed myself up off of the sand, halfheartedly dusting myself off before making my dejected entrance into my home. My limbs still shook, but instead of taking the cup of tea and the long rest that I knew I needed, I instead went to my study and fished out my morphine and that medicine which I had so long avoided. It was time; if I did not administer it now, I would never have recovered in time to meet Christine. With a long breath and a silent prayer (though to whom I know not, for not since childhood had I believed in God above), I pressed the needle beneath my skin, and sank into a mixture of bliss and utter agony.

* * *

Rehearsals that day, I later discovered, were in utter shambles. No one could concentrate, lines were often forgotten, and every small noise sent the _corps de ballet _screaming and scattering, each one convinced that the Phantom was after them. Eventually they were abandoned, and each actor went home. 

All, except one.

I stood, leaned against a lamppost, watching and waiting for the arrival of César's pretty, prancing trot, leading my brougham and its sacred cargo to me. And, in spite of all I had hoped and feared, he came, pulling up almost directly in front of me. The driver, a hired man, tipped his hat to me and then called to the lady within that they had reached their destination.

She spilled forth from the brougham in a flurry, half-running to me, one fist curled around her—my—letter, the other wrapped around her collar. "Monsieur," she spat, "you had best explain yourself, and quickly!"

My eyebrows rose, lips contorting into a half-smile. "Ah, Mademoiselle, to what do I owe the pleasure of such an affectionate greeting...?"

The humor was, to her, invisible. She merely glowered at me and waiting for the explanation she so desired.

"Ah, very well..." I offered my arm to her. "Shall we walk, while we speak?"

Christine looked on the verge of denying me, but grudgingly accepted, and fell into step beside me as we made our way down the avenue, into the depths of the park.

"You see, Mademoiselle, I was perhaps a bit dishonest with you when we spoke previously of what family I had remaining to me. A cousin, you see, was left to me, one far younger than myself, to whom I have often offered my every resource should ever he need it." I paused, eyes darting to her, and then quickly departing again when I found only anger residing on her countenance. "Ah... Anyway, after last we spoke, I returned home to find a letter from this cousin of mine, declaring that he was in fact in need of my aid... A dire illness had befallen him, you see, and it was not clear whether he would survive. It was more likely, if he was given the proper treatment by a renowned surgeon in London, but he could afford only half of the fee being asked. Because of this, he wrote to me, asking if I was possessing of the funds required. I replied that I was, and that my arrival would be shortly following that of my letter.

"Because of the urgency of his illness, Mademoiselle, I had unfortunately to leave in the dead of night, without even the time to pen you an explanation for my departure. For this, I am sorry—I wish that circumstances had been different. I had not expected to even be gone for such a long time, but his illness proved more difficult to cure than had been foretold, and I dared not leave him when he was in such a condition."

Christine was looking now at the path before us, eyebrows crinkled tightly above those lovely sapphires. I looked at her for a long moment, until her head began to tip in my direction; at that, I quickly looked away, feigning innocence. "Monsieur, your cousin... He is well, now?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle, very well. Thank you for asking."

Her lips pursed. "And would you be offended, Monsieur, if I were to tell you that I believed not a word of what you had said?"

I laughed. "You may believe what you wish, Mademoiselle. Far be it from me to give you permission in one way or another."

This seemed to please her to some degree, for we walked for a time longer without speaking. When finally she did speak again, it was to ask, "Forgive me, Monsieur, but.. where was it you said you lived?"

My mind stumbled, grasping wildly for some hint of what I had last told her. I could not recall, but had a relatively good guess; I recalled my mother once talking of an apartment she'd held briefly in Paris... "On the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin, Mademoiselle."

Her feet ceased to move, causing me to nearly stumble at the sudden pace change. I turned to face her, and found her glowering up at me. "I knew you for a liar the moment we met, Monsieur!" she snapped. "Last you told me you lived on the Rue Chaveau-Lagarde, and now you say the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin! Where will you live next, Monsieur? On the Rue Scribe itself, I bet!"

My heart froze in terror. "Oh, Mademoiselle, forgive me... I, I have recently moved, Mademoiselle, and..."

"Lies!" she hissed. "Lies, lies, lies! Can you do nothing but lie, Erik?" She took a step towards me, and curled her tiny little fingers around my shirt collar. "I tell you only truth, and you repay me with lies? Well tell me this, Erik, and tell me true—_why _do you lie to me?" I stared down at her, baffled, completely incapable of making an answer. She shook her head, and released me. "I do not care where you live, Erik! I do not care about your money, or your family, or whatever job or title you may or may not hold." She sighed, and looked down at my feet. "Erik, I checked. No one has ever heard of you, not in terms of the construction of the Garnier or anything else. You are a myth, a ghost!"

_Don't say it, please, God..._

"...Perhaps even, a Phantom?"

I looked steadily into her eyes, lips quirking. "What do you mean, Mademoiselle?"

She stared at me for a long while, and then shook her head. "No, of course, you will not tell me the truth of that, either." She drifted away from me, and I trailed after her, like a lost puppy. She paused beneath a skeletal tree, one hand resting on the back of an iron bench, as she stared out over the shadow-filled park. Night was falling, and the air was growing chill; I reveled in it. "Monsieur, there are perhaps a great many things you should consider. I am not growing younger; I am past the age at which I should have wed. My family was nothing; my mother I never knew, and my father no more than a very talented violinist. I have no expectations of grandeur... and yet, I have received an offer which no one in her right mind would turn down."

I stepped forwards quickly, hand catching her arm. "Christine, do not say it..."

Gently, she removed her arm from my grasp. "It is so, Monsieur. The Vicomte has proposed to me. There is little to lose for him, really; most of his inheritance goes to his brother, and what he does gain is little enough to speak of. I do not think he considers it a loss; I think he does in fact believe that it will take only me to make him happy." Her eyes found mine, and she smiled a bit. "Of course, I am sure you realize as much as do I how foolish that belief is, but.. he is still a boy at heart, Monsieur; he does not know better, and I am loathe to tell him the truth of it, for if I do then perhaps I will lose the offer that no girl of my station could dare hope to dream..."

I shook my head. "Christine, you must not marry that boy!" I, perhaps, said it with a bit too much force; she looked at me as if physically struck. I took a breath, and readjusted: "Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but.. I could not stand to see you wed to such a foolish child. Please, Christine—he could never please you."

She frowned. "He pleases me well enough, Monsieur, and I should thank you to not presume to know so much of what would make me happy." I saw in her eyes, however, that my words had struck home; almost immediately, she turned to me, and gave another little sigh. "If there were perhaps another offer... One preferable to the Vicomte's... But, alas, there has not been."

My eyes turned aside from her, and my shoulders sagged. Even I was not so naïve as to mistake what she meant; she was very nearly asking me to offer myself to her, but even then, I could not. Though I desired her, did she in truth deserve me? And still I had not told her the truth; could I ever? How could I bear to see her face, when she discovered that she was to wed a monster—a corpse? Would she be willing to wed the dead?

"No woman in her right mind would wed one over twice their age, Mademoiselle," I said, though my throat tried so hard to close around the words.

"On the contrary," she snapped, "women do it quite often, Monsieur! The only difference would be that I did it by choice, when most are promised without their consent." Her tiny hand took my elbow, and managed to half-turn me towards her. "What a woman would not do, in her right mind, Monsieur, is wed one who would not even tell her where he lived." This she said gently, not in the manner of fighting that she previously had.

Shaking, very nearly crying, I pressed a hand against her cheek. She leaned into the touch; her cheek felt cold against my hand, and out of habit I tugged her wrap tighter about her. "You need warmer clothes, Mademoiselle," I said in constricted vocals. With a sigh, I continued, in resigned tones, "At the Bal Masqué, Christine. Meet me there, and afterwards, perhaps... Perhaps I shall show you my home."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10 

The night had finally come. My costume was prepared, and sat off to one side of my bedroom, awaiting my body to fill it. Because of mask-related restrictions, I did not indulge in my medication—what I had come to call it, finding that I preferred that to "the powder"—though I did take a large dose of morphine to steady my nerves, and to give myself courage. I knew not whether I would find the strength to, in truth, show Christine my true self or my home, but I was at a loss for what else to do; I either lost her one way, or I lost her another, and neither seemed to show much hope of any alternate outcome.

As the hour drew nigh, I dressed myself, and secured the mask that so frighteningly resembled my true face. I had almost considered going without mask, to see who would laugh at my "farce" and who would tremble at the realistic quality of my attire. However, for Christine's sake, I had chosen something that would appear far less real, choosing instead to look more of a skull than I already did. Ironic, that the more gruesome choice was actually the less.

"Well, my darling," I crooned, as my hand swept over Ayesha's satin spine, "this should be... interesting, no?" With a chuckle, I bent and, lifting the mask just a bit, pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She did not shy away from those hideous lips, instead head-butting them as if in effort to grow closer. I straightened and resettled the mask in its place. "Au revoir, mon coeur!" I sang to her, before departing.

The ball was lovely, decorated to reflect the splendor of the remainder of the Garnier, each spectacle more dazzling than the last. Had I possessed one, I'd have wrinkled my nose at the overwhelming luxury of it all; however, I did not, so I contented myself with a "tut" and a long stare. I was not yet prepared to make my entrance; I wanted a grand one, and would therefore wait until most of the body of the guests had arrived. I took up a spy's position where I could see all who came and went, eyes focused mostly upon the coming of the Vicomte, and my angel.

They arrived separately, I was happy to find; they had been seen together far too often in recent times, and it was a relief to find that they were indeed still capable of being apart. I myself had seen little of Christine since that fateful day in the Bois; I was, admittedly, a little afraid of what would be said now that such lay between us.

"That is quite the costume, Erik."

I nearly leapt out of my own disgusting skin, as Nadir's voice was uttered in my ear. I turned sharply to face him, one hand flying up to press against his mouth while a finger was pressed to the own carved lips of my mask. "One can see through places in these walls, Nadir, because they are thin!" I whispered. He merely smirked.

"How did you find me?"

"It was not hard. I merely followed the trail of broken cobwebs; if you wish to be truly cunning, Erik, you should keep your passages clean."

I snorted, in spite of myself. "Nadir, to say such a thing, you must not know just how many passages there truly are."

He chuckled softly. "I hope I never shall, Erik; I am far too old for all this climbing and crawling about. I see not how you manage it."

I made no reply, and soon he had left me; not fifteen minutes later, I saw him come through the entranceway, with a peacock's mask tied around his head, and that same ugly hat perched upon his balding head. I could not help but give a small, affectionate smile.

And then, she came. Just when I was beginning to fear she would not come at all, she came, resplendent in the dress the Vicomte had bought her, mask pressed to her face; I almost did not recognize her, except that even from my distance I could see the widened blue eyes drinking in all around her. Raoul had arrived almost an hour before, and called to her from across the room; she did not seem to hear him.

I waited another few minutes, watching almost two full dances before creeping back through my tunnels and coming out near the head of the Grand Escalier. I made a quick once-over of myself, ensuring that there were no forgotten cobwebs lingering upon my person, before beginning my descent into hell.

At first, only a few seemed to see me passing, but slowly the word spread until silence had fallen over all those who stood upon the escalier. They pressed close, none daring to touch me but all hovering within inches, all vying to see that of which everyone whispered.

_The Red Death_.

I heard them saying it, and allowed myself a smile beneath my mask. My eyes were glowing, I could almost feel it—I could almost see it in my head, as if from aerial view, my own grand self making the slow journey down the escalier, surrounded by those who were in a mix of awe and fear. I saw Christine, mingling at the bottom and off to the side, saw her slowly turn her head to look upon me.

And when her eyes found mine, I was certain, she knew. I think that in that moment, she knew everything that I had not yet told her, though perhaps she did not yet realize it.

I pressed through the crowds, making directly for her. When finally I arrived, all made a wide circle around us, allowing for some room. "Mademoiselle," I purred, bowing to her and extending one gloved hand.

She took it, and showed not a single sign of feeling the chill of my body. "Monsieur..."

I stepped close and curled my other arm around her waist. She placed one dainty hand upon my shoulder, and we began to dance, spinning around the ballroom floor, carried by the music; I do not think that I once considered the placement of my feet, for they seemed to find their homes on the floor without any effort on my part, and I should like to think that she felt the same.

We could not dance forever, and we both knew it; the only difference between our knowledge was that while she considered the end of the dance to be a much-awaited thing, I considered it to be a worse fate than death. I prolonged the dance for as long as I could, and by the end of it her cheeks were well flushed and my own breath was coming quickly, and I knew I could not go on without rest. I did not want to stop, for stopping meant talking, and I knew she would wish only to hear of when we could depart, but I wanted only to stay. In that moment of dancing, all was perfect; the world fell away, and I ceased to be the Phantom, and she ceased to be my obsession; we became only Erik and Christine, only a man and a woman dancing together, two souls entwined in the music, and nothing stood between us. It could not have been better.

"Erik, please!" she cried, breathlessly. "I must stop, or I shall faint!" She was laughing, however; I took that as a good thing, and slowed our pace, before stopping completely and leading her off to the side. She leaned against the wall, fanning herself, and breathing hard, all the harder because she was laughing.

"I was never much of a dancer, before tonight, Monsieur! It seems you have brought out the best in me."

"Or at least," I amended with a grin she could not see, "in your feet."

She met that with a laugh, and I joined in the pleasure.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Doom approaching in the form of the Vicomte, and without bidding my lip began to curl beneath the mask. But of course, I turned to greet him with cold civility; it was, after all, the gown of his purchase that my lady had donned this eve.

"Monsieur Sartre," Raoul greeted, barely allowing his lips to part as his head inclined stiffly.

I smiled, though of course that was pointless, and mimicked his motion. "Monsieur le Vicomte... What a great pleasure it is to see you this evening."

His own lips formed something that could perhaps have been akin to a smile, and he said, in the most refined of snarls, "I imagine, dear sir, that _pleasure _is not that which began a course through your veins upon sight of me."

I laughed, which seemed to unnerve him a bit, but before I could make my full reply I was cut off. Barely had I parted my lips to speak, when a drunkenly-twirling couple slammed into the back of the Vicomte, and threw him against me. I caught him with my hands and quickly shoved him backwards again, but nonetheless he turned an oddly suspicious eye on me for the shortest of moments, before turning to face his attackers.

The young woman turned, and I was not horribly surprised to find a member of the _corps de ballet_ was the perpetrator. Her cheeks were flushed, more with wine than with exertion I would expect, and she could hardly catch her breath for laughing. Her companion was, however, significantly opposite her. He was an older gentleman, older by far than even myself, though he stood tall and seemed to be in the best of condition. He was much less intoxicated than was she—either that, or he merely bore it more regally.

"Oh, heavens," the old man uttered, and I spied him immediately for an Englishman. Upon closer inspection, that became obvious; though his mask was of French make, his clothing was that of an English officer and gentleman, and his French was heavily-laden with the fine and reformed accent of the nobler English. "Please, sirs, forgive us—I am afraid my partner and I were not paying a bit of attention to our passage!"

Christine giggled gaily, locking hands with the ballet dancer. They began whispering urgently to one another, while we three gentlemen—so strange, to include myself in that category!—joined up in a sort of triangle to speak. The old Englishman put a hand on my shoulder, and leaned his weight a little upon me; the other hand went to his thigh, and he leaned upon it as well, his breath coming quickly. "That little sprite has near worn me out!" he said with a laugh, and both of us joined in.

Where once there had been murder in the Vicomte's eyes for both myself and his attackers, now there was only the falsely-produced warmth that every nobleman so quickly learns to acquire. The English officer seemed to be oblivious of this false kindness, however, and took the laughter for an indication of friendship—which, on my part, it was. I had known several good men who were English officers, all of them a generation older than myself, and all of them far greater men than most others I knew.

When this one removed his mask to allow better passage of air through his nostrils, I recognized him for a regular patron of the Garnier, Colonel Aldwyn Sydenham. He had lived in Paris for nigh on seven years, having retired to the glamorous streets after growing too infirm for the African safaris on which he had fed his desire for adventure for nearly thirty years; the English army had had little need of him, and had stationed him in Africa, where there was even less need for gentleman officers, except to curb the growing population of lion and water buffalo on the African plains.

I heard he had also spent some time in India while in the employ of England, having hunted and killed a great number of man-eating tigers in his youth. I had heard it said that he had hunted with that most illustrious of men, John Patterson, the Irishmen who was said to have killed many a tiger and lion in his day (the most famous of which was the pair of lions from Tsavo, in Africa, which shocked and pleased the readers of cheap journals for quite some months, until Patterson destroyed the newspaper industry's money-making scheme by in turn killing the two beasts who had made such a career out of killing his workers). I was not much of a fanatic of hunting, of course—the thought did not appeal to me; I could never stomach killing an animal for sport, no matter how little I minded killing men for such—but it was near impossible to have gone without hearing of the Tsavo Lions at some point.

"This is quite the costume you've acquired, my good man," the Englishman said to me with a grin. "I'd heard some rumor about..." He leaned to one side, looking around at my cape. He took a moment to read what was written there, and then righted himself and smiled further. "Ah, perhaps not a rumor, then. A wonderful costume nonetheless."

"My dearest thanks, Colonel," I said in warm tones. Christine looked up at us, and she and the dancer both moved towards us. I was pleased to have her step up to my left arm and slip her own arm through it; the Vicomte stood alone, to the right of me.

"Who is your friend, Erik?" she asked sweetly, yet pointedly, of me.

I laughed. "Forgive me, my dear—this is Colonel Aldwyn Sydenham. Surely you have seen him about...?"

"Of course," she said, with every social grace; she smiled brightly, and offered her hand to the Colonel, who took it, bowed over it, and kissed it lightly.

"Colonel, this is Mademoiselle Christine Daaé," I said as he did so.

"Yes, I am quite aware," he told me as he straightened. "Mademoiselle, I have had that great pleasure of hearing you sing, and I must assure you, you are quite the magnificent soprano."

Christine flushed hotly. "Monsieur Colonel, you are too kind..."

"On the contrary, Mademoiselle—I could not possibly be kind enough!" He had held onto her hand until that moment, and only released it so that he could turn and catch a glass of champagne as it passed him on a waiter's tray. He gulped it in one breath, and dropped the empty glass onto the next passing tray.

"He speaks the truth, Christine," I said in quiet tones as I leaned close to her. "Perhaps next time, you shall take my word for it?"

She did not reply, except to blush deeper.

"Erik, here," the Vicomte was saying, "had a hand in building this grand building. Would you believe that, Monsieur Colonel?" He ignored the rebuking look Christine cast his way.

"Amazing!" said the Colonel, without guile. "Ah, that I could lay claim to such a task... I knew Monsieur Garnier for a brief time; he is quite the amazing architect, wouldn't you agree, Monsieur Sartre?"

I did not recall having given him my name, but I ignored that slight. In reply to his inquiry, I merely shrugged a shoulder. "He was.. acceptable, but not exceptional, and certainly not without flaw." After a slight pause, I amended, "As an architect, that is. As a man... he was, indeed, exceptional."

I said this with such warmth that I believe even the Vicomte, for a moment, believed that I had indeed worked on the Garnier. All fell silent for a moment, watching the knees of the one across from him.

"Erik Sartre, is it?" the Colonel asked; without waiting for an answer, he continued: "Funny... I don't recall Charles speaking of a Sartre, when he talked of the _Palais Garnier_. The only Erik he spoke of was... well, certainly not you, Monsieur," the Colonel said with a laugh.

Both the Vicomte and Christine stiffened, and both narrowed their eyes. It was, however, the Vicomte who spoke first. "What do you mean, Monsieur Colonel?"

"Well," said the Colonel with a smirk, "does Monsieur Sartre have a face? For I am told..." and he leaned in closer to us, while the ballet dancer's eyes went wider than saucers twirling upon the fingers of jugglers, "that this Erik had only a corpse's head, and was quite the monstrous sort." Christine frowned, and the Vicomte's eyebrows raised.

The ballet rat squealed. "The Phantom! The Phantom!" Several nearby heads jerked our way, as if expecting the Phantom to have materialized out of thin air; when the Colonel drew her closer and urged her into silence, the heads turned away.

"Yes," the Colonel agreed, "he does sound quite like your Phantom. Perhaps, after building his lovely opera-house, he chose to disappear into the depths of his creation..."

"Nonsense," I snapped, more harshly than I had intended.

The Vicomte turned to look at me, and what I saw in his face caused me to lean back away from him. I suddenly felt the walls closing in around me. "Yes, Monsieur," Raoul purred, "you do have a face beneath that hideous mask of yours, do you not?"

"Raoul!" Christine gasped. "What is this ridiculous—"

"Monsieur le Vicomte," I said in a long-suffering voice, "you have seen my face on multiple occasions—perhaps far more often than you would have liked. You know as well as I that I have a face..."

"Raoul," Christine said sharply, as she released my arm and caught up the Vicomte's. "Dance with me." As quickly as that, they disappeared, and the ballet rat did as well.

The Colonel stepped closer to me, and offered a smile. "Forgive me, Monsieur. I did not mean to call such trouble to your doorstep."

I waved a hand. "An apology is unnecessary, I assure you. I have nothing but suspicion from that boy, regardless of the company and their conversation."

Sydenham nodded, and we both stood shoulder-to-shoulder, watching Christine twirl across the dance floor. "She is quite beautiful, Monsieur," he told me softly. "You seem very proud of her voice... Is it your doing?"

I opened my mouth to say yes, but managed to catch myself. Instead, I sighed. "No, unfortunately I cannot lay claim to such an immaculate thing. I am merely... protective of it, I suppose because I recognize it for what it is."

"Mm..." He was quiet for a long time, and was apparently content to stand with hands clasped behind his back, merely watching the two of them alongside me. It was a nice feeling of companionship, one I had not felt since my night spent with Christine on our picnic near the lake.

"I am glad I met you, Monsieur Colonel," I said suddenly, turning my head to look at him. He met my gaze, and smiled, and offered his hand. I took it, and shook it warmly.

"I see not how you can be so cool, in this hot room," he said, laughing. "I feel near to roast to death!"

"Yes... I think I may be coming down with a little something. I have been cold near all evening."

It was then that the Vicomte and Christine returned to us. Christine moved to take my arm again, and I had turned to greet her when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a hand reaching towards me. Out of instinct, I jerked away from it, and when I had fallen still again I found it to have been the Vicomte's hand. He made another lunge, and though Christine snapped at him and moved to block his way, he almost sealed the blow. I raised a hand to my mask protectively.

"What ails you, boy?" I snarled, backing away from him. "Have you gone mad?"

"I wish only to see your face, Monsieur Erik!" the boy said, with wickedness in his eyes. "Why do you not wish to show me?"

"The mask is fragile; leave it be, or your boy's hands shall break it," I said to him coolly. He responded with another lunge, which again Christine cut off with her tiny body. Fearing she should be hurt, I reached forwards and caught her arm. "Excuse us, Monsieur Colonel," I said, before cutting another angry look towards the Vicomte.

When he looked ready to move towards us, I pulled Christine quickly away from the scene. We half-fled through the crowd and down an adjacent hallway, not stopping until we hardly could hear the music any longer. I stopped and leaned against a wall; my breath was coming in increasingly shortened gasps, and I was beginning to feel lightheaded.

Christine stepped close to me, and for a moment I thought she would kiss me. Instead, she reached up, and rested her hands against the sides of my neck. "Erik," she said softly, "what is the matter with you?"

"With me?" I laughed. "Do you not mean, with the Vicomte?" My breath had quickly stilled, upon her nearness.

"No, Erik," she told me gently. "I did not misspeak."

"Christine, I am running quickly short on patience for this foolishness," I said, in a voice that sounded sufficiently tired.

Her eyes looked into mine for a long while, before she nodded and drew back a bit. "Forgive me, Erik... It is only that—" And without warning, her little hand jerked forwards, and her fingertips caught the edge of my mask.

Acting with a quickness of the mind that I was not usually known for when it came to my face, I turned my head in the same direction in which her fingers sought to peel the mask, and with a hand on my cheek for added support, managed to keep it in place. When I turned my eyes again to her, I found an angry look upon her sweet face.

"Erik, you are being stupid!" She again reached for the mask, but this time I caught her wrist. "Erik, why won't you let me—"

"Hush," I crooned, in a voice only the Angel could have manufactured. She immediately went still, and I leaned close, to murmur in her ear as my body pressed tight against her own. "Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white... Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk..." She sagged against me, and I led her down the hall, away from life and light. "Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font... The firefly wakens: waken thou.. with me!"

I opened a hidden door, and led her into the dark tunnel, back to the darkness, my eyes on her, my hands over hers. She followed willingly, eyes glued to me, captivated by the voice I used—half speech, half song did I use to recite that lovely poetry to her. "Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost..." A candelabra flared to life, and my free hand held it before us, the other still fastened onto her own hand. "And like a ghost, she glimmers onto me..."

Christine looked near to faint, so ethereal were her movements. She walked as if in a dream, as if brought to life by a puppeteer's hands—or perhaps, more accurately, a puppeteer's voice—and would I think have found herself forever lost, without my eyes to anchor her to the world in which we walked.

"Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars... And all thy heart.. lies open.. unto me..."

Deeper we descended, and deeper, until not a sound could be heard of the world above, until it seemed that we had gone into Hell itself.

"Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves a shining furrow.. as thy thoughts in me..."

A breath slipped between her parted lips, and on it was carried the slightest whisper of a moan. Her eyes had gone ever wider, wider even than the ballet rat's from before, and the only thing that kept her in motion was my light and my hand upon hers.

"Now folds the lilly all her sweetness up..."

This passage skipped the lake, took us neatly around it, which was all for the better since I had not left the boat moored on this side of it. As we descended onto its shore and the damp sand began to roll beneath our feet, she began to come back to herself; I drew her closer, and increased the purr of my voice.

"...and slips into the bosom of the lake..."

An arm curled around her, and I moved to stand behind her, to lead from behind towards my little home which sat so broodingly upon the shore.

"So fold thyself," I sang over her shoulder, "my dearest, thou..."

We entered the house, and the door closed silently and sightlessly behind us...

"...and slip into my bosom," I whispered, as my lips pressed against her ear, "_and be lost in me..._!"


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Several breaths were taken from between those moist and parted lips, before slowly her head turned towards me. Shoulders, torso, and legs followed, and her sweet little hands rose to rest upon my chest. For the shortest of moments, glazed and dreamy eyes looked up into mine, and she seemed very near to swooning. But that moment passed, and she began suddenly to look near to tears.

Her tongue flitted out to brush across her lips, and then slowly she spoke: "There is no Monsieur Sartre." It was not a question, and I made no reply.

She tried again. "Neither is there an Angel of Music..."

This was said with such sad pleading in her soft blue eyes that I could not help but answer her, for she seemed ready to beg me for some—any—reply. "No, Christine," I said as gently as I could.

Her little head began to shake, and her eyes lowered. Like leaves in autumn, her hands fluttered down from their perch upon my breast, and fell to rest at her sides. "No," she echoed in the tiniest of whispers, and the color drained from her face.

"No," I repeated. "There is only Erik."

Shoulders sagging, she turned away from me, and surveyed her surroundings. The dreary hallway with nary a light to shine seemed close and suppressing; she stepped away, following its dismal path towards the open doorway of my bedroom. A lamp still glowed from within, the light spilling into the corridor like a tiny golden life raft; she stepped onto it, allowing a breath as if she felt herself now rescued from the ill fate of drowning in my darkness. A tentative hand pushed the bedroom door fully open, and she stepped within. I trailed behind her like a forgotten puppy, too lost within the occasion to stop her folly.

Her dancer's legs stood solid for a long while, under the onslaught of the horrors she surveyed. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes spread wide, and a hand rose to clutch the base of her throat as if to contain the scream that must have longed to leap from her lips. Those lovely eyes hovered first and foremost on the hulking demon that was my organ; massive and dark, it sat in the shadows of the farthest wall, almost as dark and ominous as my home upon the shore. They then turned to the _Dies Irae_ that traced its way along my wall, again and again in sick repetition, adding the final note of elegant horror that I had once thought the room so desperately needed.

And finally, that which was so perfectly and so ill-done, so wonderful and so monstrous, that which was the impossibility of human nature—my bed, the dead man's cradle into which I climbed every night to sleep as comfortably as any lordling in his featherbed.

A soft murmur, a whimper, was all that served as warning. The hand upon her throat never faltered; it remained locked into position even as her legs crumpled, even as she sank like a snowflake to the floor. I started forwards too late to save her completely, but arrived at the scene soon enough to rescue her sweet head from a bashing upon the hard floor of my home. Carefully I lifted her, and carried her to the room that held my mother's furniture.

I laid her out upon the bed, and perched upon the side of the mattress to watch her in her sleep. Her eyelids fluttered; her lips twitched a bit. I smiled, and reached out to remove her gloves and shoes. My fingers hovered over her stockings, considering, but feared instead the repercussions of such an act—especially if she should wake while I was in the act—and instead stood and walked away from her and the temptation she had suddenly begun to represent.

I shut her door behind her, not bothering to lock a door that she could not have found on her own, and proceeded to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. Slowly I sank down into one of the two chairs at my small kitchen table, teacup clutched in my now-ungloved hands. I raised the cup to my lips, and nearly laughed when the porcelain clacked lightly against my mask. With a sigh, I reached up and slowly removed the mask, tossing it onto the table and watching as it slid across and fell into the chair across from mine.

Foolish of me, to become so accustomed to humanity that I could not even remember to remove the mask.

I had nearly finished the tea when I first began to hear the crying. Curious, I stood, half expecting to find a true phantom—in truth, hoping I would, preferring a ghost to the reality that she could very well be so miserable. But as I drew closer to her door, the sound grew louder, and as I pressed my ear against it the sound increased even more. My hand hovered over the trigger to her door, suspended between a desire to comfort her and a knowledge that I could do no such thing.

"Erik!" she wailed from within. "Erik! Erik, please!"

I leaned my head against the door, and closed my eyes. The poor child...

A sudden _thump_ sounded against the door directly beneath my ear. I sucked in a breath and leapt away from it; she must have heard the sound, for immediately her screams were renewed.

"Erik, Erik! Erik, please! Let me out!"

I heard her slide down the door to sit upon the wood floor, heard her cries become little more than choked sobs, interspersed with moans of "Erik, Erik..." and the occasional "_Please…_"

Slowly, unbidden, I began to sing ever so softly. It was a quiet little lullaby, one that I had heard her humming several times in her dressing room. Her crying began to quiet, and her breathing slowed, softened. I allowed myself a smile, and fell silent. When the cries did not return, I walked away, to wash my teacup and prepare for bed.

* * *

At nine o'clock sharp, I opened the door to her room. She had at some point during the night gone to her bed, though she lay above the covers and was still fully dressed in the Vicomte's gown. I averted my eyes, and cleared my throat. "Mademoiselle Daaé?"

With a start, she raised her head. Her eyes were swollen and red, and still damp from her tears. "Erik?" she asked, in a voice still hoarse from last night's sufferings.

"It is well past time to rise, Mademoiselle. There is a vast array of clothing awaiting your perusal, in the wardrobe—help yourself to anything you should find there. Most of it.. should be your size. There is a bathroom, just there, for you." I pointed to the door on one of the walls of her bedroom.

She watched me a moment, and when I did not leave, she sat up and dangled her legs off the side of the bed. It was a huge thing; her petite size was made a mockery of by its immensity. "Is there.. anything else, Monsieur?"

"Ah, yes… There is breakfast awaiting you, Mademoiselle—the kitchen is just down the hallway, you cannot miss it. I shall… wait for you there, as well?" I do not know why I more asked than told her that last; perhaps I expected her to act the monarch and bid me go elsewhere while she ate, for what beauty would wish to dine in the presence of such a beast?

However, she only nodded, and with a soft sigh I retreated from her presence, leaving the door cracked so that she could find and open it. I returned to my waiting cup of tea at the kitchen table, setting one ankle atop the opposite knee, and allowed myself to lean back against the chair. Every minute that ticked past set me more on edge; this would be our first true confrontation, and I knew that it would be just that. What more could I expect, after all, from one who had learned such awful secrets? As the minutes turned into an hour, and then two, I began to fear that she would not come to me, that she would shut herself away in that room and refuse to come out. This set me even more on edge, and soon I had abandoned the tea to the fate of the cold air, and sat broodingly with my arms folded upon my chest.

Eventually she did come, though, as in truth I had known she would. Timidly she entered the kitchen, and even more timidly did she take her seat at the table and begin to nibble on the food set before her. I watched with merciless intensity, devouring every move she made. It was as if I had never been with her before; I had lost all my grace and charm in one fell swoop. The only dignity remaining to me was my mask, and even that I feared would be lost all too soon.

When finally her eyes raised to meet mine, I found fear and anger lurking behind those serene blues. I was almost surprised to find myself hurt by that; it was nothing short of what I deserved, and yet I could not help but feel that I had been mistreated somehow. "Is something amiss, Mademoiselle?" I asked carefully, foolishly.

Cold silence met my words at first, but eventually the anger gave way to fear, and she ducked her head. "No, Monsieur, I suppose not." Her words had a hard edge to them, but sarcasm was to be expected.

"If the food is not to your liking—"

"The _food _is fine, Erik," she snapped, and then immediately paled. Her head ducked lower, and her eyes closed. "Forgive me, Monsieur," she whimpered.

I winced. "There is no need to apologize, Christine…"

This gave her courage; barely had I finished, when her head snapped up, and she snarled, "No, not from me, you are right. But there is definitely a call for apology from someone in this room, Erik!"

My shoulders stiffened. "I am not sure that I know what you mean, Christine."

She gave a sharp bark of laughter, and then returned to her food. After a moment's respite, she added as if as an afterthought, "Take off that silly mask, Erik. The masquerade is quite over and done with, don't you think?" I was relatively certain she was not referring to the Bal Masque.

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, Christine," I said coolly.

Another mocking snort of laughter followed. "Why is that, Erik? Do you fear that I will see your _true _face?"

"Yes, exactly so," I said, having given up all pretense.

When she looked up, she seemed for a moment to be truly considering my words. That quickly vanished, however, as the mockery returned. "Oh? What, and is it so different from the one you showed me?"

"Quite," I told her, my vocals tensing as I felt the teeth of a trap closing around me.

She sighed, and pushed her almost-empty plate away from her. "Erik, you are being foolish," she said sternly. "No _mask _is going to hide your face, not now. I've seen the truth of you, Erik; there is little else left to hide."

It was my turn to laugh now, and laugh I did. "Christine, if only that were true. If only what you knew now was everything… If only I had nothing left to hide from you!" I raised my hand to touch it against my cheek, and sighed. "It is to your benefit that I continue to hide behind this mask, Christine, and do not ever forget that."

This conversation was hardly the last we had, about the mask. As we went through the day together—she never once mentioned returning to the surface; I think she had resigned herself, for the moment, to whatever fate might hold for her—she continued to bring it up.

While in the study, she nagged me to tell her why it was so important that I not remove the mask. Had I been injured, since last she had seen me? She assured me that no disfigurement, no matter how horrible, could ever sway her from me. That hurt, truly hurt—I had to excuse myself from her presence, for I could not hold back all the tears which her words had inspired. She was such a stupid child, saying things she did not—could not—mean.

During her lesson—for, though she knew I was her "angel", it would not do to discontinue her lessons, though they were now significantly less divine—she paused mid-scale to again inquire about the mask, and bid me remove it. That made me furious, and I chastised her perhaps a little too harshly for breaking in her diligence. She did not bring up the mask again throughout the lesson, though once we had finished she made a quiet remark about my singing being "so much better, when your mask did not cover your lips".

Lunch was a hushed affair; both of us bristled at every word the other spoke, and therefore we both had moved to silence. She did not seem much affected by the fact that I did not eat from the plate that I had set before myself; she merely ate from her own, and accepted what I did as being simply what I did. After lunch I excused myself and shut her up in her room, for I had a business matter to attend to, as well as a little "shopping" to do.

By the time I returned, it was nearly supper-time, and I quickly set about making it for her. The thieving—the "shopping"—I had done had been for a lovely dessert wine that I knew was a favorite of hers: a lovely little bottle of tokay, which I had in the past seen her drink, and had heard her remark upon its loveliness.

I thought belatedly of her still shut away in her room, and went to her door. When the lock clicked, I immediately heard motion behind the door; I knocked, and then opened it, and she was without pause flung into my arms. Her soft limbs enfolded me, and she crumpled against my cold chest; her own body felt like fire against mine. "Erik, oh Erik!" she wailed, and it was then that I saw her fingernails were bloody and worn down. She looked haggard and worn, and out of concern I lifted her in my arms and carried her to the study to set her before the fire.

She stood shivering before the flames, still hovering within inches of me. I could smell the perfume of her hair, and I felt an immediate aching within me which was almost impossible to quench. She moaned, and pushed her weight against me. "Erik, please," she wailed, "don't ever leave me in this darkness again! I thought you had gone and left me forever, Erik… You cannot do that to me again!"

I had not even realized that I had left her without so much as a candle; shamed, I put my hands upon her arms, and led her to the couch nearby. She sank down into it, and curled around herself, shivering still. "Erik," she said through chattering teeth, "you are so cold… You, and your home, are so cold…!"

"Forgive me, my child," I murmured softly, removing my hands from her. "The fire will warm you soon—that is all I can offer you, except perhaps a blanket, and a glass of wine to warm the insides?"

She nodded, and I stood to fetch her things. Hearing movement, I turned my head, and found her standing at my arm. "Please," she whispered. "Don't go where I cannot see you."

I knew, of course, how she reacted to my voice—how could I not? Taking it into account, I spoke to her in my most sweet of voices, and watched her eyes become half-glazed, as if she dream-walked. I led her with my voice, first to the linen closet, and then into the kitchen, before sing-songing her back into the study. I set the glass in her hands, and wrapped her in the blanket, and then kneeled on the floor in front of her. She looked like a dead thing; pale, and thin, with dark smudges beneath her eyes and the look of a madman who has been lobotomized.

My voice fell silent, and slowly she began to resurface. It was so strange, these two completely opposite facets of her that she continued to show to me. One was the iron-willed woman who did not fear to take me in hand and chide me for my foolishness; the other side of her was no more than a child, the frightened and fragile flower that had first drawn me into this trap of the heart, the one that begged for my presence even when she feared what that presence could mean.

She took a few slow sips from the glass, and then looked at me with a slight smile. "I am quite fond of this wine, Erik," she said quietly—and then, after a pause, "But you knew that, didn't you?"

I nodded silently.

Her eyes fell to the glass. "Just like you knew my dress size, and which styles and colors I best liked."

Again, I nodded.

"Just like you knew the story of the Angel of Music."

There was no need to nod, now. She no longer even sought unnecessary affirmations.

"Erik?"

"Yes, Christine?"

She looked as if she were considering saying something quite meaningful, but then bit her lip and offered something of a smile instead. After one shoulder had shrugged—which conveniently bared it of the blanket as well as her dress, and left a few rounded, soft porcelain inches of utter temptation—she said, "Are we to dine soon, Erik? I must admit, I am a bit hungry..."

I was not surprised; she had not eaten much, either at breakfast or lunch. I had assumed it would be only so long before hunger swayed her half-hearted desire to rebel against my every wish.

I smiled, foolishly. "Yes, of course. I shall meet you in the dining room, my dear."

We parted, she to be dressed and myself to finish her meal—I always made enough for the two of us, though mine was quickly tossed to the rats. I could not eat in front of her, and rarely had the stomach for it even when I was alone.

After dinner, we went to the study to relax. I picked up a worn copy of Tennyson's work, while she selected a book at random and began to devour it. We sat in silence for only a few minutes, however, before she set the book aside and stood.

"Ready for bed, my dear?" I asked, glancing up from the pages.

"No, Erik," she said, her voice stern. "I am ready to go back. I… want to go home, Erik."

I stared at her for a moment, and then shook my head. "It is late, Christine. We shall go in the morning."

"No."

Surprised to hear such a firm argument come from her, I raised my eyebrows. "No?" I repeated, disbelieving.

"No," she repeated. "We will go _now_."

I sighed, and set the book down. "That is quite impossible, Christine. It is late—almost eleven. We shall go in the morning."

"Erik, I will not spend another night in this place with you!" Her voice quickly climbed the scale in her passion, and her little fists clenched. "I am cold, and frightened, and I want to go home!" I could already see the hysteria rising in her, like a visible swell of the tides.

"Christine," I said gently, "it is late. We will—"

"Stop it!" she screamed. "Stop it, stop it, stop it! I don't want to hear you repeating yourself over and over again, Erik—I want you to _take me home_!"

Slowly, carefully, I stood. "Christine…"

"Why did you bring me here?" she wailed, turning away from me and towards the fire. "Why? Why did you have to bring me to this awful, horrid place? I want to go _home_, Erik! I don't want to be here in the cold and the dark! I want to be in my own bed! I… I…" With a final wail, she crumpled to the floor in sobs, her skirts puffing out around her.

I sank to the floor beside her, and took a hand in mine. She snatched it away, and turned her face away from me. "Get away!" she sobbed. "Away, away! Away from me!"

This pain of hers was far worse than anything she could have inflicted upon me. I folded over, near-prostrate on the floor, and took her dress hem in my hands. I kissed her little foot, and her skirts, and cried myself near as much as she. "Please, Christine," I begged, folding my cold fingers around the material of her dress, and crumpling it. "Please, please, please… Forgive me! Please, you must forgive me!"

"Why?" she countered. "Why must I forgive you, Erik? Why _should _I forgive _you_?"

I buried my face in her skirts, and in the floor, and sobbed. I had no answer—I would not have forgiven me either. "Please, Christine," I repeated, my voice twice muffled. "Please, please… I did it for love, Christine!"

Silence—even her sobs had paused for the moment—and then, quietly, "…What?"

"Love, Christine! Love!" I wailed, looking up at her from my piteous position. "I brought you here because I love you! Oh, Christine, why, but for love?"

"Erik," she cried, fingers grabbing my wrists, "if you love me, you will take me home!"

I sat up, and drew back a ways from her. Silence stretched out before us like a barren wasteland, upon which any and all feelings she had for me were more than likely to die. But I knew not what to say—I knew not how to bring life to what lay between us by raining the right words upon it and bidding it flower and grow. I was not the Vicomte; I knew only coldness, and satire, and how to use my voice for beauty. But my voice would not save me now; even if I sang to her now, I could not sing to her forever, and we would return to this place time and again.

And then, with one stupid decision, I impaled what love she had for me then upon harsh words. "I cannot."

She stared at me, mouth agape. "What?"

"I cannot take you home," I repeated.

Anger, hurt, betrayal—all flared to life in her pretty round eyes, and she began to cry again. "Why, Erik?" she cried. "Why? Why can't you take me home?" Her little fingers sought out my pants' leg, and clutched to it as if it were a lifejacket. "Please, Erik, please!"

"No," I told her firmly, plucking her fingers from my leg. "If I take you home now, you will never return to poor Erik. You will pretend you never saw him, and you will stay away forever. If I take you home now, I will never see you again!"

She shook her head violently, and snatched at lies to try to save herself. "No, Erik, that isn't true! I should come all the time—whenever you wanted me! I should come so often you would grow tired of me!"

I smiled, and cupped her cheek in my hand, though she shied away from its coldness. Hurt, I pulled it back, and said softly, "I would never grow tired of you, Christine…"

She did not seem to hear me. I stood, and turned away from her. "It is past time for bed, Christine. You should retire—"

I did not even hear her move from the ground, much less hear her creep up behind me. I was unaware of all danger until I felt a sudden draft upon my cheek, and saw from the corner of my eye the tiny pale hand that flicked into and then out of my vision. And then suddenly, my face was bare, and her eyes had devoured all that horror before I could even react.

* * *

_Christine  
_I do not know what I was thinking. Hysterical with grief and fear, half-mad with everything my mind and heart had undergone in the past two days, I thought only that I had seen my chance—and I took it. I moved as quietly as possible, for I knew how well he could track my movements with those keen ears of his. I moved quickly, as quickly as I could, and even still I expected his hand to catch my wrist and stop me. 

When I jerked the mask free of his face, I thought to herald it over him and perhaps mock him. I thought that I could perhaps use it against him, use it to be taken home. I thought to break him, perhaps—I do not know what I thought, for everything immediately went blank when I saw what lay beneath the mask.

I do not know what I saw, in truth, but I did not see the Erik Sartre that I knew. This Erik was a different being, a monster—a ghost—that lurked in catacombs and wooed maidens with his devilish voice. This was a dead thing, a corpse, and now I knew why he always felt so cold to the touch. My body went numb, and I dropped the mask. I watched as he crumpled to the floor and tried to cover his face with those skeleton's hands.

I do not recall leaving him there, but I must have, for eventually I found myself in the room that the monster had given me, crying like the stupid child that I was as I curled up on the bed, still dressed in one of the many lovely gowns he had given me. I could not think of anything but that face, that horrible face… Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it, with its burning eyes, the whole thing contorted as it realized that I had seen it…

It was not until long after I had retreated to my room that I heard the sound. It was an inhuman wailing, born of such pain and grief that no man should ever have known. It continued for a long time, so long that I found myself trembling beneath the covers of the bed, my eyes closed, praying to God Above to rescue me from this devil. When finally it stopped, the silence was so deafening that I almost considered praying that he would begin screaming again. The silence was awful—but the music was worse.

It is true that the silence ended, and for a moment I was grateful, for I heard that he was playing upon that frightening, hulking organ of his. But when I began to discern the notes, I found myself far more frightened that I had been before. Those notes were more twisted and demonic than was the corpse that played them, and I could not drown them out no matter how tightly I plugged my ears, or with how much force I mashed the pillow over my head.

Those notes invaded my mind, my heart, and even my very soul, until they had ravaged and raped all that I was, and all that I had ever been.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

I awoke to find my bedroom door cracked open. A moment of terror slid through me, leaving behind icy tendrils, until a scan of my room assured me that the monster was not within. I was still dressed, had not had the sense of mind to remove my clothes before I retreated, shivering, to hide beneath my covers. I felt the child, but could not bring myself to so much as think on the horror in that parlor without feeling as if I would retch; it was many a cold hour before I fell into fitful slumber. 

Tremblingly I stood, and began to redress myself. My watch showed it to be nearly ten; I knew, somewhere within where I still was the Christine from twenty-four hours ago, that Erik would have my head for such tardiness. I dressed quickly, and combed out my hair as best I could, before moving towards the door and timorously pulling it further open.

Though frightened of the connotations, I was relieved that he had opened my door for me. While I had learned its general location, and had mastered the art of closing it to him, he yet refused to teach me the mystery of opening it. On the matter of most doors, he had instructed me, such as the parlor, the bath room, and the library; there were still, however, some that he allowed to remain a mystery. (Already I had learned that each door opened in a different fashion, so as to prevent a lucky individual from discovering the secret to not one but thus all doors in that house of mirrors.) The door to my room and to the outside of the house, as well as those which led to his bedroom and his study, were kept apart from my knowledge.

The kitchen, luckily, had no door, but rather opened up onto the hall. This was the room into which I now traveled, and found a cup of still-hot tea awaiting me upon the smaller kitchen table. I looked around, expecting to see those frightening, glowing eyes studying me from some dark corner; however, I found him curiously absent, and thus sat down at the table to have my tea.

I was drinking it, and had sunk deep into a sort of mindlessness, when I suddenly sensed his foreboding presence at my arm. I gave a little jump, but kept my head ducked down, to avoid any reminder of that terrible face.

"Good morning," he crooned to me, in that hypnotizing voice. I felt my body melt beneath that sound, but set my lips in a grim line against it.

"Yes, good morning… Thank you, Erik—for the tea, I mean." I lifted it a few inches, as if he would not on his own discern what I meant by "tea".

He hesitated—I could almost hear the injury in his voice—before murmuring a brief "You're welcome" and taking a seat in the second chair. I directed my countenance further downwards, in every attempt to avoid seeing him; I stared instead at the wood of his table, and the lapels of his jacket—that lovely evening jacket I had so innocently remarked upon previously. I felt now so foolish, for the way I had behaved with him. To even think now, how warmly I had acted with him, how lovingly I had…

My shoulders gave an involuntary shoulder, and though I could not see his face, I am certain that I _felt _him wince. For a moment, he stopped breathing, and I was unsure that he would ever begin again, until finally he gave a long, shuddering sigh.

"I am not feeling well, today… Perhaps I should have remained abed."

"Yes, perhaps," I said, too quickly; this time, I saw his body stiffen, and immediately I regretted my thoughtlessness. My life dangled so precariously from this man's cold, lifeless fingertips; I would have to remember to curb my sometimes ruthless tongue.

"Are you hungry?" he asked coldly. "Though it is well past time for breakfast, I thought perhaps…"

My grip tightened on my tea, and I sullenly shook my head in the negative. The thought of eating something his hands had touched made my stomach heave.

"Very well," he snapped, and stood so abruptly that, unconsciously, my head jerked upwards to see him rise.

What I saw there bid a scream rise to my throat, and several shrill notes escaped before I could clamp my hand over my lips. His face was not the face of last night, but was rather something more horrible: it was the face of the Erik of whom I had grown so accustomed, that human skin, and black hair peppered thickly with grey.

He drew back from my scream, eyes going wide—wolfish eyes still, but ones I could look into, not the glowing monstrosities of his other self. I saw confusion and rage alight in those eyes, but not the rage of a madman, but rather that of an injured beast, a chastised dog who could not discern the purpose for his punishment. "What now, woman?" he yelled at me, using that beautiful voice in the harshest of ways. "Why now do you scream, when I have done this for you?" He gave a sharp gesture to his face, and then disgustedly jerked away from me.

I sat with my hand over my mouth, my teacup shattered upon the floor, and watched him in dull horror. That he had made such a transformation overnight terrified me; it was as if I were lost in one of Papa's old fairy tales, and I could not bring myself to react.

Erik bent over me and snatched up my wrists in his. The palm of his hand was warm and firm; the flesh there felt alive. He brought both my hands up to his face, and pressed them against his cheeks. "This is real, Christine!" he snarled. "Touch me! Feel me! I am not some dream!"

I cried out, and turned my face away from him. Vainly did I try to pull my hands away from him, but he would not relinquish his grip, and I was but a child against his strength. Finally he threw my hands away with such force that my chair tipped back a bit, and I was thrown against the wall.

"Stupid girl!" he growled ferociously, before stalking out of the room.

I fell over onto the floor, curled into a ball, and wept.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"Stupid child!"

Hands I did not recognize dragged down a bookshelf; the wood shattered, and books skittered across the floor. Another scream ripped through my throat; this time, the words carried upon its tide were unintelligible. I passed by a chair and, in my rage, threw it over onto its back as well. Had I believed that I could with any ease knock over my desk, I should have destroyed it as well; however, even in such a state, I feared it should prove more than a match for my aging body.

That I had risked my health by injecting myself again--though I had done it in a mad moment of utter despair the night before--was, I felt, enough to deserve some sympathy, for in my wrath it did not occur to me that she would neither know nor understand the dangers I had undergone for her aesthetic pleasures. That she had treated me so cruelly, had turned so cold a gaze, and so hurtful a scream, in my direction... That even as the man she had known and of whom she had grown fond, she could still refuse me...

In one of my rotations about the room--for, having wreaked havoc on what I could, I had fallen to pacing furiously about--I stepped on the torn pages of a book, and my footing slipped out from beneath me. I landed hard on the unforgiving floor, and found my temper turned instead to a sullen and childish resentment. In that moment of decreased fury, I saw clearly what I had done to my private study. Christine's crimes against me were momentarily forgotten as I took in the aftermath of my destruction.

Books which were unique and impossible to find, first editions of ancient texts, countless priceless volumes, all lay in various states of ruin. In somewhat sick curiosity, I lifted the papers which had caused my brief demise, and brushed away my footprint. Milton's _Paradise Lost _stared up at me, and I found an ironic laugh rising unbidden to my lips, whilst simultaneously the stinging salty drops of rage rose to well about the rims of my eyes.

While contemplating my childish tantrum, a sound began to make itself known to me, a sound which caused even more unbearable pain to my already-grieving heart. Gingerly, stiffly, I rose from my position upon the floor and began to make something of a shamed journey back into the kitchen. Though moments before I had hated her for the thoughtlessness, the heartlessness, of her actions, now I felt only compassion and heartache at having reduced her to such a pitiful state. She was curled over herself like a child upon the floor, weeping violently; I do not think she even noticed my return to the kitchen.

When I crouched down beside her, she took notice--a pathetic cry met my action, and weakly she tried to scramble away from me. I caught her up and drew her to me, and, just as would any broken woman, she out of habit collapsed against me and continued sobbing. I felt her body mold against mine, felt her shape contour to my own, and immediately experienced a renewed desire for her, as had occurred when first I had caught so intimate a whiff of her perfume.

Gently I lifted her from the floor, mostly out of fear of being too long too close to her, and carried her into the parlor. I set her upon the sofa, where she tucked her legs against her chest and fell to meek silence. I pushed her hair, damp from tears, back from her face, and then knelt down before her. She hardly seemed to take notice of me; her eyes had focused dreamily upon the far wall, and her forehead was smooth, as if not a thought existed in that pretty head of hers.

"Forgive me," I said, in a voice hoarse from screaming both moments before, and the night prior. My eyes directed themselves to her tiny feet which were so delicately pressed against the cushions, and were so near to my hands; hesitantly, I covered them, and was unhappy to find them quite chilled. "I did not intend to startle you so, this morning."

She gave a miserable sniff; I reached for my handkerchief, and held it to her.

Cautiously, she took it from me, and began to pat lightly at her eyes. She gave me no other answer, but I optimistically chose to view her acceptance of my peace-offering as a good sign.

"Are you certain you are not hungry, my dear?"

She nodded, eyes darting briefly to mine before again flitting away. I could see new tears forming in her eyes, and desperately I tried to distract her.

(To the end of my days, I suppose I shall never truthfully understand why she inspires such self-sacrifice in me, why I would amputate a valuable limb in the interest of her entertainment, should she ask it of me.)

"You truly should eat," I suggested carefully. She shook her head, but still refused my gaze; after a long moment, she managed a quiet, "No, thank you, Monsieur. I am without appetite."

I hesitated, and then raised my eyes to hers, which were staring still so fixedly and determinedly at the wall. "Perhaps you would be more willing," I began slowly, "if I were to take you out, for a nice brunch? Or," I added, as I checked the clock on the mantle, "more accurate to the times, a lunch would instead be more suitable?"

Immediately her eyes met mine, and this time they remained there for a long moment. I believe she feared some cruel jest--that, or she was considering her opportunity for escape, should I remove her to the upper world. After weighing her options carefully, she removed her eyes from my own again, and replied, "Perhaps..." _Sniff._ "But I am not yet dressed properly, for such an outing..."

I smiled; she saw, and immediately fear--or at least, apprehension--returned to that doe-eyed gaze. It hurt, but I attempted a brave face, and patted her knee; I chose to ignore the flinch I caught after doing so. "I think, then, that it is time to show you a little gift I have been planning."

I stood, and motioned her to rise and follow me. Slowly, and only because she was bidden and dare not refuse me, she did as I asked. I led her through my study, trying my best to avoid acknowledging the state of disrepair it was in, and hoping she would follow suit. If she looked, she deemed it wisest to say nothing, for I did not even hear a sharp breath of surprise.

Perhaps she had merely grown accustomed to me.

At the opposite end of my study was a door, though the eyes would never have guessed it, which led to a storage room of sorts. This room held all the various things I had "collected" over the years, and did not care to have arranged about my home. It was also the location of several gifts chosen for Christine which I did not desire for her to yet discover. Due to the darkness of my home, however, she could see little except that which I pointed out to her, so I felt little apprehension in bringing her into such a room of wonders.

In a far corner, which I led her towards, hung a vast array of dresses that, through much diligence, I had managed to collect. Some were of the newest fashion, and some were intended to be the newest fashion in a year or two; all had been such, when I had initially begun my collection, though that had been some time ago. I stepped aside, and presented this rack to her with a flourish.

"There shall be no other lady in Paris dressed in one of these, Mademoiselle," I said grinningly. "What you like shall be yours--what you do not can remain here. Merely choose what you find lovely, and I shall have each one removed to your wardrobe."

"Oh, Erik," she breathed, stepping forwards and brushing one sleeve with her fingertips. "They are all so lovely..."

"Then you shall have them all," I said promptly. "But for the moment, you could perhaps choose just one, to wear out?" I looked rather pointedly at my watch again, and gave a slight chuckle. "It shall be of the hour for tomorrow's breakfast, before we get free of here, if we do not make some haste."

Immediately I regretted my choice of word; at the mention of "free", her entire demeanor changed, and she beat a hasty retreat from the dresses. "I... cannot accept this gift, Monsieur," she said in a cold voice, eyes downcast. "It would not be... proper."

I cupped her chin, and lifted her countenance upwards. "Do not be ridiculous," I said with a soft smile. "What am I to do with them? I think, after all, that _my_ wearing them should be significantly more improper than your wearing them."

She laughed, in spite of herself, and though it was a small laugh, and a pitiful one, it nonetheless gave me some amount of reassurance. This seemed to defeat her somewhat, and finally she nodded. "Very well, Monsieur. If... if you insist, I shall take _a _dress--but only one!" And to make her point, she held a singular finger before my face.

I resisted the temptation to kiss that finger, and instead merely smiled. "I do, indeed, insist," I confirmed, before taking a step backwards. "I do not wish to see your choice, until you have dressed--for now, I shall await you in the parlor." And with that, I left her with her dresses.

I felt that I had at least had some small victory; though I had not exactly received a declaration of forgiveness, or understanding, I felt that with each small compromise I forced her into, I was pushing her farther into my world, and more and more irrevocably making her my own. I became more confident that, given time, she would grow to feel a certain fondness for me, such as I had seen present on our more pleasant days together; I did not require love, and certainly not a love of the extent to which I felt it for her--just a compassionate hand against my cheek here and there, and a warm smile, was all I truly asked of her, and I had begun to believe that I would receive it.

Our lunch together was extraordinary, and she behaved to the utmost; not a single cry for help was made, and she did not even make a vain attempt at escape. I was pleased with her behavior, and because of it, promised her a carriage-ride through the park on our next warm night. She was thrilled with this, and nearly hugged me; at the last moment, however, she caught herself, and instead merely pressed my hand. That alone, however, was enough to send me into ecstasy.

As we sat in the parlor before a crisply-burning fire after dinner, I caught her repeatedly staring at me; she seemed to think her glances furtive, but each one seemed as obvious as a missed note in her scale. Finally I raised my eyes to purposefully catch her at it; her eyes retreated to the fire, and her cheeks colored.

"Is there something you wish said, Mademoiselle?" I asked carefully, not truly wishing to hear her answer, or at least hoping it would be in the negative.

She studied the flames for a long while, before looking back at my face, and coloring further. "It is just that... Forgive me, Monsieur, but... I do not understand..." And, for inability to articulate, she merely gestured towards her own face.

I looked down, and gave a little shrug. "It is difficult to explain, Mademoiselle, and a matter I do not wish discussed ever again."

Chastised, she quickly turned her face down to her lap, and clamped her teeth down over her lip.

"All you need know, Christine," I said slowly, "is this: that which causes me to become the Erik Sartre whom you know and for whom you care, is an inexhaustible resource, one that could last me until the day of my death." Christine risked a look at me, and frowned darkly, as if already expecting what I intended to suggest. "You need never again see me as I was, Christine--only as I now am. It is as if that part of me does not even exist, or never has--you have only to see Monsieur Sartre, and not Poor Erik."

She stood, and set aside the book she had been half-reading. After carefully straightening her skirts, and warming herself for a moment before the fire, she made a path towards the door. When she reached it, she paused, and looked back at me for a moment. Her mouth opened as if she would say something, but then snapped shut again. Twice more it opened and closed, until finally, with a frustrated sigh, she said merely, "Good-night, Erik, and sleep well."

I turned my head to look at her, and found her outlined by the light of the hall. That light glittered around her edges, and by silhouetting her granted her a glorious golden halo. In that moment, I was struck dumb by her celestine presence; my chest pressed heavily in upon itself, and air rushed from my lungs to pour furiously through my nostrils, until my poor rapidly-beating heart was left with no oxygen at all. While staring at her so stupidly, seated rigid and breathless, I saw her for more of an angel than ever before--I saw her for the angel she truly was, and not just one of silly pretense.

With every moment that my silence persisted, she grew more agitated, until she seemed on the verge of departing from me without my own farewell. Her forehead crinkled and her lips turned downwards, and already her heel had begun to turn, before somehow I found myself, and drew deeply of the air of which I had so long depraved myself.

I attempted a meager smile, and replied, "Yes, Mademoiselle... and to you as well."

She hovered in the doorway only a moment more, and then with another sigh, she nodded, and disappeared around the doorframe.

* * *

Even now, as I close my eyes, I can see that light glittering in her angel's hair, and so perfectly outlining her flawless frame; even now, it burns upon my eyelids, as it shall forevermore, reminding me of my wonderful Christine, and the tragedies that would inevitably befall us.

* * *

_**Author's Note**:  
I'm baaaaack!_


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

A mask removed, that night, and a mask replaced only an hour after; and when I rose from my night's rest, it was with renewed expression of human countenance. The morning was an uneventful one; I awoke early, cracked Christine's door, and set about preparing breakfast. When, at the close of that meal's preparations she still had not arisen, I adjourned to my study to oversee the cleaning of that destruction. Doing so was no easy task, but with resolve formed heavily in my mind to act the gentleman, I found I could no longer bear the thought of such evidence of my former childishness; I removed that evidence as quickly as I could, and restored all that was possible to its former position of simple elegance.

What was destroyed, I dwelled over for long moments. Never before in such stupid rage had I gone so far as to destroy such priceless articles, and certainly rage had prior visited me for much more monumental purposes. Still, little could be done now; but, unable to throw such treasures away, I packed the torn pages neatly into boxes, and tucked them into my hidden cubby, to act as future work for idle hands.

I thought I heard a stirring in the other room, and with a smile, wandered into the kitchen to greet her. What I found there, however, was not the sleepy-eyed angel I had expected, but rather a stern-faced Persian with a silly red cap perched precariously upon his balding head.

"This is quite the breakfast for yourself, Erik. I was not aware you put such effort into your morning meals." Those eyes were narrowed suspiciously at the plate of food awaiting Christine, even as his meddling fingers pinched off bits of my bread to place it between those frowning lips. "Are you... expecting someone?"

My lips curled upwards into a snarl of a grin, as I advanced forwards to seat myself across from him at the kitchen table. "As you are aware, Nadir, my house is quite the highway--hardly has one guest left, before three more are knocking upon my door. I cannot seem to find a single moment of solitude." Right foot lifted to rest upon left knee, and my fingers curled together and came to lie atop my abdomen. My head cocked sideways, and I fixed him with my most penetrating of gazes.

He frowned only further at my sarcasm, and leaned forwards, dropping his stolen hunk of bread onto the table. "I came here not to play at spoken darts with you, Erik. I seek not to enter into one of your ridiculous verbal contests, but rather to ask you rather important questions as to your activities of late--or rather, the lack thereof."

I shook my head, smiling still. "But as you have pointed out, my dear Daroga, I am expecting company--of the finest nature. So, if it please you, perhaps we could continue this on another occasion?"

"It would please me not, Erik," he said sharply, and a bit too loudly; I winced to think that Christine should hear his voice, and come seeking out the source of it. "I demand you speak with me--candidly--about the disappearance of that little dancer, the Daaé girl."

My spine went rigid. "I assure you, Daroga, I know nothing of the matter."

"You are a liar!" he shouted, rising in anger to point a solitary finger at me. I noticed, bizarrely, that his fingers had grown thin--all of him, in fact, had grown thin, as if he grew old and frail. It frightened me, suddenly, to think that harm should come to him, that illness should visit the only man who ever had served as my conscience. I found myself frowning deeply, and considering the consequences of his taking sudden and prolonged second absence.

"Erik!" he snapped, and my eyes jerked upwards. I found not just anger in his face, then, but a somewhat horrified concern. "Have you even heard my words?" he asked suddenly, sinking back down into his chair. "You seem ill..."

I shook my head, and waved a hand before my face, thankful for his momentary sidebar. "Do not think you shall be rid of me so easily, Daroga."

He snorted. "Yes, you are right--no simple sickness will rid me of you, otherwise I'd have infected you long ago."

It was a friendly jest, and yet still it stung me; too closely did it resemble my mother's own true sentiments of me, and I found myself resenting him almost immediately for it.

A sudden shriek burst forth from Christine's room--a long and piercing scream, one that could come only from the throat of a truly terrified woman. I leapt to my feet, my first instinct fear and protection; Nadir, also, became most abruptly upright, and then locked his eyes furiously onto mine own.

"Erik, whose cry was that?" he asked of me, though he needed no reply.

I turned cold eyes on him, and snarled. "Out!" I cried. "Get out!" Without, however, waiting to see him to the door, I rushed to Christine's room.

She stood paralyzed in the center of it, a dressing gown half clasped about her still-damp body; golden locks hung pitifully around her shoulders, further wetting the gown. She was white, and trembling, but not just from the chill that most assuredly was creeping through her bones. She was looking fixedly into the bathroom, eyes wide and mouth parted in utmost horror.

I advanced slowly into the room, carefully, moving as delicately as around a terrified horse. She did not look at me, but obviously noted my presence; without a word, she pointed into the bathroom. I paused next to her for a moment to touch her shoulder; she squeezed her eyes shut, and managed to whisper, "In the bath."

Apprehensively I moved forwards, craning my neck to peer into the soapy water. Within it thrashed a large spider, already near dead from drowning. I scooped it up, and was pleased to find it lively enough to immediately attempt to crawl up my sleeve. Delicately I carried it from the bathroom.

When Christine saw it in my hands, she shrieked again, and scurried backwards to the bed. She was not at all mindful of her gown, and with a hot blush, I found my eyes rather forcibly averted from her completely.

"Erik, what are you doing?" she screamed.

"Taking it outside," I said simply.

She watched me carefully for a moment, as if contemplating what I meant to do with it. "Are you going to.. kill it?" she asked gently.

The muscles on my neck tightened, and I turned to stare at her--though, admittedly, I focused rather firmly on her face, and nothing more. "No," I said with constricted vocals.

"But--"

Enter Nadir, who gave a cry at seeing Christine laid out so upon the bed. She saw him, and screamed all the more loudly; in the commotion, the spider freed itself from my grasp, and went scurrying away into the walls of Christine's room. Too distracted was she to notice; instead, she was busy scrambling to the side of the bed opposite from Nadir, and clutching the gown tighter about her body; little good it did, however, for the wetter her hair forced her to be, the more transparent the gown became.

"Allah save you, Erik," Nadir said breathlessly, as he looked unabashedly at Christine--though I know him well enough to recognize he did so from utter shock, rather than from any perversion of the mind.

Still, looking was looking--I moved protectively in front of her, removed my jacket, and wrapped it around her. Only then did Nadir realize what he did; blushing furiously, he turned his back to us.

"The spider is long gone, my dear, I assure you," I said gently. "Finish your bath; breakfast is waiting for you in the kitchen."

She nodded dumbly, leaning ever closer to my chest. She shivered now with only cold, but it was a horrible shiver, a violent one. I rubbed her arms vigorously for a moment, and then gave her the gentlest of nudges in the direction of the bathroom. "Quick, before you catch your death," I said with a slight smile, though true concern sat heavily on my breast. She nodded, and somewhat meekly, and ever so cautiously, she advanced into the bathroom and shut the door behind her.

I gave a heavy sigh, and in my shirtsleeves returned to the hall, where Nadir stood waiting, as grim-faced as death.

"What are you doing, Erik?" he asked in a voice driven weary by my own actions. "What have you done?"

"I have done nothing at all," I responded tersely.

He shook his head, and covered his face with his hands. "I cannot decide, Erik, if you are a liar, or if you truly do not realize your own actions."

"What are you suggesting I have done, Nadir?" I asked, eyebrows drawing together.

He merely shook his head again, and let it fall back so that his haggard face was lifted towards the ceiling, as if seeking divine assistance. "You must allow her to return to her world, Erik. She cannot exist here, as you can. She is not like you."

I looked away, unwilling to hear his words, for they were the same that I had so often heard my own heart whispering, the same that I had refused to hear time and again.

"She is a creature of the light, Erik," he persisted. "Return her to it, or she _will_ die here."

I gave a long sigh, and turned my eye upon him. "And are you so sure that I will not, Daroga?"

* * *

That evening, I spent many hours in my study, apart from Christine. That night was the first in many weeks that I partook of the morphine, without that saving substance from that pretty oriental box. I sank into quiet thoughtful bliss, listening only to the sound of my dying heart muscle throbbing weakly against my sternum. My chair creaked as I leaned backwards, groaned as I shifted my weight into a position of more comfort. After that I was motionless; barely did my chest even rise with breath.

He was right, and that was what most disturbed me. There was no possible way that Christine could survive here with me, but facing that reality was something that I was uncertain I could do. Blissful had my sleep been, knowing she was only a room away from me; I felt as if every day pulled her a little closer to understanding me, perhaps even to... caring for me, if nothing else--and I was not stupid enough to think there would ever be something else.

But he was right. I could not keep her here indefinitely. She had matters to attend to; she had friends, few though they were, and a career--I could not isolate her, if I wished for her to excel in the Paris Opera. And yet, how could I let her leave me, when I knew full well that she would not return to me?

At length, I rose from my position, to wander somewhat dreamily into the parlor. When first I saw her, I knew something was wrong; instead of advancing upon her, however, I stood back to watch her and see if I could perhaps catch some glimpse of her malady. There was a book clutched in her white-knuckled hands, and those glittering eyes were focused intently upon its contents. Wide were those eyes, and white the face they so complimented. Her pretty lips first pinched, and then parted limply as terror swept over that countenance. After some few moments of such behavior, she flung the book aside, and stood up quickly.

I moved forwards, for she seemed on the verge of collapse. At the sight of me, however, she gave a dull cry, and flinched away from my presence. She was terrified, I could tell; what I represented to her merely heightened that, and with tears of fright slipping down her cheeks, she ran from the room.

For a moment I stood in shock, and then I walked slowly forwards to lift the book which she read. The title of the collection was worn away; I opened it, and the pages fell to where she had been reading. "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" sat before me; the last words she had read still outlined by where a tear had fallen.

_"And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,  
(Heaven's Mother send us grace!)  
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered  
With broad and burning face.  
And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun.  
Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)  
How fast she nears and nears!  
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,  
Like restless gossameres?_

_The Spectre-Woman and her Death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship._

_And those her ribs through which the Sun  
Did peer, as through a grate?  
And is that Woman all her crew?  
Is that a DEATH? and are there two?  
Is DEATH that woman's mate?  
Like vessel, like crew!_

_Her lips were red, her looks were free,  
Her locks were yellow as gold:  
Her skin was as white as leprosy,  
The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,  
Who thicks man's blood with cold._

_Death and Life-In-Death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner._

_The naked hulk alongside came,  
And the twain were castign dice;  
'The game is done! I've won! I've won!' "_

The tale sent a chill up even my spine; I shut it firmly, and cast it down upon the sofa's cushions. The poem was a horrible one, with further horrors aplenty before that moment; knowing my sweet innocent had read them all caused me a thick and horrible moment of pity. I turned from the room and journeyed to her own, where I found her curled and trembling, sobbing horribly upon her bed.

Quietly I went to her, and sat lightly upon the side of her bed. She felt me there, and moved to me, resting her head in my lap and allowing me to comfort her.

"It's horrible!" she cried. "Terrible! Who could write such a thing? Why, why would you write such a terrible thing?" Her tears dampened the leg of my pants, and still she cried on. "I thought... I thought it would not be... I thought it would get better... A Rime... How could a rime be such a frightening thing? ... I... Oh, oh, Erik... Your house is filled with such terrible things!"

I scooped her into my arms, and held her long, until she had quieted, and eventually fallen asleep. I laid her out upon the bed, and covered her, as carefully and sweetly as a father with his child. But no father would have let his little girl live in such a horrible place--she was right, my house was filled with terrible things, and I had brought her here amongst them without a single thought for her own well-being.

"Oh, my sweet Christine," I whispered, before pressing a single kiss upon her sleeping brow. "I am so sorry..."

As I left her room, preparing myself for my own coming horrors, I reflected again on Nadir's words. He was right. She was not meant for this place.

A mask removed, and a mask replaced, and I awoke that morning with renewed expression of human countenance. I awoke that morning with quiet, horrible, aching, saddened resolve, to return my little songbird to the life of sunlight and happiness that she had so long missed. "_Be peaceful then, thou art of men--a god we could not keep._"


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

It was a long hour that I spent in the kitchen, awaiting Christine's arrival. She had not slept; I had heard her in the night, pacing endlessly about her room, or quietly sniffling against her pillow. Several times I had entertained the thought of going to her to comfort her, but then had eventually decided against it. She wanted me there little more, I think, than she wanted her own nightmares there; I would have been little comfort to her, would have served only to further remind her of what dwelled just outside her bedroom door.

I, myself, had slept little enough. The comatose state that overcame me both before and after my mask's application had grown shorter with every instance, until it now lasted just little over an hour. In between those times had been almost no rest, for my mind had been too much astir with the imminent events that awaited me come morn; I could not quiet my mind any more than I could still my heart by will alone, though many times I had in the past tried.

The clock chimed nine o'clock, and I had just begun to rise to fetch her, when she appeared around the corner. She stood, blurry-eyed and with cheeks shadowed, looking at me as if expecting chastisement; when I offered none, she continued onward and inward, and sank heavily into her chair.

Who would fill that chair, when she had departed? Even Nadir chose the one left of it; only she consistently warmed that seat with her sweet weight. The table--the room--the house would feel far more empty than ever before, once it had known what her presence felt like.

She thought my house was dark and cold, only because she had not seen it when she was not here.

"You... did not sleep well?"

"No," she said quietly, eyes fastened upon her knees. "I rarely do, Monsieur."

I lowered my head a bit, feeling rebuked. How to reply to such a thing, to such an insult? "I am... sorry, Christine. I did not mean for it to be so."

"No, I am sure you did not," she answered, still not meeting my eyes.

Silence settled between us, that impassable desert once more spreading before my eyes and threatening me with its impossibilities. _You cannot have her,_ it said; _you cannot reach her. She is beyond you, and always will be. _I gritted my teeth and looked aside, finding myself too weakened to argue with that voice now. Too many times had I heard it, and I was beginning to believe it true, wholly and completely true.

Christine heaved a great and weary sigh, and slowly forced her head upwards, along with that pristine gaze. It fastened onto me, threatening me far more than any desert of silence could have, and with brow set in a grim line, she spoke: "What are we having for breakfast, Monsieur? Or am I too late for it?"

"Actually..." I glanced down at my wristwatch, and managed a meager smile--it was all I could do not to shed a tear. My voice trembled as I spoke. "I should think you would have no trouble whatsoever finding yourself a bit of breakfast, at this hour. Most cafés will still be serving, and I imagine any friend you care to visit will be just beginning their own."

She stared long and hard, unable to devour what I had given her. Lips moved but made no sound, eyelids fluttered; finally, she cleared her throat, and with glistening eyes asked, "What do you mean, Erik?"

I stood, turning my face away from her so she would not see the wince of pain I was forced to make. Her excitement, her enthusiasm for being returned--it was to be expected, but it was nonetheless painful to witness. She was killing me, my little songbird was, by taking to wing so willingly when her cage door had merely cracked.

"Gather anything you wish to take with you, Mademoiselle. I imagine you will be returning here no time soon."

Still she stared, still she did not comprehend my words. "Erik, what do you mean? Where are we going?" Her voice rose in pitch; I could see her lips fighting against a smile that desired against all wishes to grow.

My anger caught up with me, as always it did; I turned harshly from her, knocking aside the teacup I had yet to drink from. It shattered against the wall, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw her recoil in terror. "Use your head, you silly girl!" I snarled. "I am returning you to whence you came--setting you free from this horrible hell!" I stood with my back to her, breath heaving, fists clenched at my sides.

Meekly she rose, and quiet as a mouse departed from the kitchen. I heard her gathering a few things into a bag, heard her quiet footsteps as she returned down the hall only a moment later, with little more than a fistful of possessions. "I.. am ready, Monsieur," she managed to squeak, though she trembled as she stood before me.

By some force of will, I managed to contain my anger, though my voice still shook with the effort of it. "That is all you wish to take?" I asked coldly. "All you wish to have, to remind you of this living nightmare?"

"This is all that belongs to me, Monsieur," and her own voice shook now, as well, with fright. "I do not feel it right to remove anything else from your home--"

"I told you it was yours, Christine!" I yelled, though I did not know why she angered me so. "And yet you refuse me, at every step, balking at any gift I offer you! Why? Because you are kind and good, Christine?" I snorted. "Or because you seek a way to hurt me?"

She drew back sharply, mouth gaping open. "Erik, how could you?" she gasped, as tears began to roll down her cheeks. I immediately regretted my words when I saw how much they had hurt her, but I could not find it in me to repent; I turned instead, away from her, and walked briskly down the hall. "Come, then," I snapped. "If this is all you wish, then all the better--you can carry it for yourself easily enough." I opened the door, and led her without.

I did not take her back into the opera house, but rather to the Rue Scribe exit. I took a moment to show her how to open it, and then pressed the key into her little hand. She stood looking at me with that same wide-eyed gaze, still as confused as cornered prey. "Should you ever wish to visit... I am trusting you, Christine, with this secret..." She nodded, lips pale and tight.

I stepped back, and she began to turn, but then paused. "Erik..." she whispered.

I held up a finger. "No, Christine. Whatever you have to say..." I shook my head. "Tell me another day, when next we speak." I caught up her hand, and slipped onto her finger my mother's old ring. "Wear this always for me, Christine, and I shall know that you have not forgotten Poor Erik."

She stared long at it, and then gave a slight nod. No words were spoken, but she offered me the tiniest of smiles, before turning away from me to pick her way slowly down the Rue Scribe.

"I love you, Christine," I whispered. She paused, and looked back at me; for a moment I thought she had heard me, but perhaps not, for she looked only a moment before continuing her journey down the street. "Goodbye..."

I returned to my little house on the lake, and found it cold and dark and empty--it was appalling, to exist within it in such solitude, after so growing accustomed to her companionship. When I entered the kitchen and saw the remains of my teacup, I snarled, and threw over her chair. I kicked it against the wall, and then staggered backwards to lean against the opposite barrier, one hand cradling my aching foot. The prospect of a broken toe serving as punishment for such unruly behavior was too much; I snatched up my cloak and hat, and swept from the room with the same speed and grace as had been mine when they had named me as that ethereal haunt of the Garnier.

However, it was not to the opera I traveled, to feast upon those splendorous colors and sounds; instead, I took to the streets, storming down lanes and casting evil glares upon all who happened past me, though there was little traffic at such an hour. All recoiled from me in the same fashion as had Christine; each caused me a second ache, a second blow to the heart--never, since my coming to Paris, had I felt the monster that I was, until then.

I traveled onwards, for what seemed an eternity, until my eyes lit upon a magnificent cathedral, backlit by the grey morning sky. I hesitated, and then with a sigh, entered that house of light. Deep within its sanctuary I traveled, pausing amongst the rows of pews and casting my eyes about the hazy darkness. There was a man kneeling in one of the foremost pews, murmuring quiet prayers; I retreated quickly, before his notice could fall upon me, and placed myself instead in one of the most distant corners I could find. I was beneath a beautiful stained-glass window, which I fixed my attention upon for some long moment; I began to feel blasphemous, however, and returned my gaze to the sanctuary.

The roof loomed high above me; light did not penetrate its highest points, and the swirls of dust lent it an air of true mystery. I leaned back, and folded my hands in my lap; my hat sat upon the pew beside me. All was silent within that gracious cathedral; it was as if the world without did not exist within. I felt my breathing slow, felt my pulse calm, until I had begun to feel completely at one with the stillness. It pervaded me and penetrated me, almost bodily forcing out all anger and resentment, until my temper was quelled and I had, for a moment, found peace.

Time ticked past, and I remained seated in utter quiet, and in a solitude that for once did not seem lonely. Christine, and my concerns surrounding her, seemed to melt away and roll off my shoulders. Never had I been a godly man--even when I had worshipped him, for those few years, I had not been what one would consider devout--but God played little part in this sudden contentment. It was atmosphere that seduced me; something within that cathedral promised of happiness and quiet and perfection, and those things were promises I could not keep from seeking out.

So long did I remain, that my presence drew the attention of an older priest; I saw him from far away, traveling towards me with the calm and stately speed of one who knows he will be waited for. I did not flee; my impulse to take flight, in fact, never kicked in. I merely remained seated, with perhaps a somewhat dull smile upon my lips, watching him and soaking in all that I could.

The priest took a seat upon the pew in front of me, and turned only a little to face me. "What troubles you, my son?" he asked softly, and still his voice echoed through the room.

"Naught, at the present," I replied, and the beautiful chords of my voice bounced from the walls; the priest's eyes lifted, as if following that sound as it rose to the ceiling.

"That is a voice, my child," the priest said with a smile, "which our God Above must be sorely missing."

I chuckled. "Perhaps," I said, though in truth I believed it was the god below who had sent this voice to France.

The priest was silent a moment, and then said carefully, "You have been seated here for many an hour, my son." I nodded slowly, and he continued. "Is there something to which you so dread to return?"

"You have the right of it, Father," I answered. "Something beyond your imagination--something truly dreadful."

"Come now," he said immediately, "your wife must not be so bad?"

I laughed, in spite of myself, and in reply held up my left hand. "There is no Madame, Father--no, it is not a woman who has sent me here, seeking sanctuary..." My tongue felt heavy with the falsehood, but I did my best to ignore it. Perhaps it was not a lie after all; I could not even be sure these days, it seemed.

"Then what, my son?" he persisted, though in friendly fashion. "What has frightened such a man into prolonged hiding?"

One shoulder lifted in a shrug, and my hands parted briefly in a gesture of supplication. "I could not say, Father. Many things, and nothing."

"Ah." He turned away from me, and sat watching as the choir drifted into the room, singing softly some lamentation. That sound was a truly beautiful one; my eyes closed, and I lifted a bit, as if carried upwards upon the waves of those notes--which I may very well have been. I remained in a rapturous state such as that long enough that, when finally the music stopped and my eyes opened, the priest had departed from me. With a quiet sigh, I stood, and left that cathedral feeling far more at peace with the world than ever I had before.

xXxXxXx

"Christine!"

I jumped at the sound of a voice I had not heard for so many days, and then out of instinct ran to him. "Raoul!" I cried in return, as we came together with hands clasped tightly.

"Christine, where have you been?" he asked of me, eyes intense, and voice a mix between anger and relief. "It has been weeks! We feared you dead!"

I shook my head vigorously. "No, not dead, Raoul--" Amazingly. "--only ... away. I have been only away."

"You could have written to us, Christine!" he admonished. "Could have given us some notification, some brief instruction on where you had gone! We all have been worried sick!"

"I am sorry, Raoul," I said, ducking my head. "Please, you must forgive me. I was careless."

"No," he said, lifting my chin; his hands were warm and soft, not like Erik's; that touch, however, was not so tender, nor so elegantly executed, as had Erik's been. "You need no forgiveness," he told me. "It is that man, who has so influenced you to act foolishly, that need beg my forgiveness."

"Whatever do you mean, Raoul? What man?"

His eyebrows lowered, and he fixed me with a cold stare. "Do not act the idiot, Christine. You know exactly of whom I speak."

I turned my head away from him. "Erik... Monsieur Sartre has done nothing wrong, Raoul."

"Oh, so I suppose you ran off on your own, and of your own volition?" Those eyes rolled cruelly, and I felt myself shrink away from him. His anger, so unjustified, seemed so much harsher than Erik's--where once I would have sympathized with Raoul, I found myself now only appalled at his childishness. It was true that Erik had stolen me away, but he had no reason to believe Erik would do such a thing--and therefore, I found it painfully unfair that he blamed such an act on poor Erik...

I raised my hands to my cheeks, and pressed them there. Had I truly been so brainwashed? Why should not Erik take blame for this?

But he was so sad, and so lonely...

I felt tears rising to my eyes, tears of frustration, pity, anger, confusion...

My hand was abruptly snatched away from my face, as Raoul studied it closely, and then turned accusatory gaze upon me. "Christine, what is this?" he asked, holding up the finger that bore that incriminating ring upon it. "Who has given you this?"

I took my hand away from him, and cradled it against my chest. "Do not ask silly questions, Raoul. You know who has given it to me." What did it mean, that I had not removed the ring as soon as I was away from him? Did I truly believe he could see me, hear me? My eyes rose above me, to the rafters. Two days it had been since he had set me free, and only now had I grown the bravery to return to the Garnier. Every sound, every whisper, caused me to jump with fright, and still I had neither seen nor heard from Erik.

"Christine, what is going on?" Raoul asked sharply. "Are you, then, to be wed to this man?"

"No!" I said immediately, and then, "I do not know..."

He reared back from me, throwing his hands up in the air. "You do not know? What nonsense is this?"

I rubbed tears from my eyes, hiding my face behind my hands. "I do not know... Do not ask me to explain this, please, Raoul!"

That familiar head shook violently, and then he jerked away from me and stormed out. I leaned against the wall, hand at the base of my neck, and wept, for the thousandth time since my first introduction to Erik.

xXxXxXx

Several weeks passed, and I did not again hear from Erik. The only notification I received of his continuing presence was my constant rising through the ranks of the opera house. It was not long before there was a great argument over a presentation of _La Triviata_, in which Carlotta was to star, and in which it was desired that _I_ should star. I wished to stir up no confrontation with that beast of a woman, and so meekly I stood upon the sidelines while she and the managers argued it out; I was backed only by the letters which Erik repeatedly sent to act as his ambassadors. Eventually living and angry faces, wholly present at such instances, won out over the messily-written though finely-composed letters which Erik had been sending.

This was, of course, a disaster I did not care to dwell upon. I had seen firsthand Erik's temper, and that only over what silly things I had done while with him--I could hardly imagine what should occur if his wishes were so blatantly ignored. What frightened me more was that it was not truly Erik's wishes which were being ignored, but the Phantom's. I had come to view him as three wholly separate beings, each of which frightened me in their own way, but the Phantom more so than any other. This was his truly dark side, that side which appeared when he was angered, when his tempers sent him into dimensions beyond my own grasp. The Phantom terrified me, and rightly so, and now he was being intentionally provoked.

Each rehearsal for the production grew increasingly difficult, increasingly risky, until things progressed to a stage at which even the managers refused to go on stage, for fear of falling to harm. A chorus-girl was hit upon the head with a sandbag; two stagehands, on two separate occasions, "fell" from the catwalks--they were bruised, and one broke a finger, but otherwise no harm was done. The chorus girl perhaps lost a few thought processes, but she had had few to begin with, I suppose. Carlotta narrowly escaped harm herself; she was practicing a duet, when a bucket plummeted downwards from the ceiling; it, however, caught upon the railing of a catwalk, and was repelled a few feet to the left of the prima donna. She screamed enough to have been hit, however; no rehearsing could be managed for the rest of that week.

When finally it came time for the production to take place, Erik's box was rented out, and I placed in the chorus, as usual. I minded it little enough; in truth, singing the lead was more stressful than I cared for. In my little dressing-room, which had somehow been kept for my own use through Erik's demands, I retreated only a few minutes before the debut, to put any final touches on my makeup that was required. I, also, felt that I needed a moment or two of stillness, for the world without was a raging storm of nerves and fear--none believed they would survive the night.

What I found within my room caused me near to faint with dread. Upon my vanity was a copy of the score of _La Triviata_--Carlotta's role was clearly marked in red ink. A note was set beside it, which read only, _"Be prepared." _The handwriting was unmistakable.

To go onto that stage, knowing for a fact that something dreadful would happen, took almost more bravery than I had within me. I knew something awful would happen, and soon, for he would not long put up with the noise he considered Carlotta's voice to be, not if he had a plan for replacing her with myself.

I risked a peak out into the crowd, and saw Raoul seated in his own private box, looking pale and grim-faced. Feeling tears rise to my eyes again, I retreated to my place stage-left, and did my best to settle my nerves.

Things began without a hitch, and continued on for almost half an hour in the same fashion. It was, however, in the middle of Carlotta's "most anticipated solo" (as read the _Epoch_), that her voice began to falter. I do not know what happened to her, exactly, but with every few notes, she would emit something that sounded so remarkably similar to a frog's croaking, that none of us could help but to laugh. Even I, knowing the demonic source of her failing, could hardly suppress a giggle, though I did my best to crush my hands against my lips.

Carlotta fled the stage, chased off by a crowd which felt much similar to myself; laughter was filling the auditorium, a horrible sound to a singer, but even I could not find much pity for the witch. The only pity I did feel, in truth, was for how little she had on this occasion deserved it; it was not her fault, after all, that Erik hated her.

"We surrender!" the managers both cried at once; they came to me, grabbed me one by each arm, and began to drag me towards my dressing room. "You shall sing it! You shall sing it!" they cried. "We cannot handle this sabotage any longer!"

It was too late, however, and I knew it would be. Too much too long--too little too late. Erik's wrath would not be so easily quelled, and I trembled as I walked out onto that stage. I hoped--prayed--that his wrath would not fall upon my own shoulders, as some sick form of final punishment. I still wore, even beneath my costume, the key he had given me, upon a little golden chain; its weight upon my breast served as a constant reminder of guilt, for not having returned to him. I could not, however, bring myself to voluntarily return to a place from which I might never again escape.

I took up my place upon stage; the conductor conversed briefly with me on where Carlotta had left off, and eventually it was decided that we should begin the aria again. I nodded once to him, and the instruments struck up their tune. My lips parted, I drew a breath, and began to sing.

Barely a few notes had escaped my throat, when the chandelier above us began to groan. My eyes went wide, and my voice faltered; the conductor cleared his throat, trying in vain to recapture my attention, but my eyes were focused solely upon the chandelier, which was now swaying back and forth. Slowly, members of the audience began to look up as well. A ghostly laugh rang through the room, and I heard his voice cry something out, though I know not what he said. With a final and mighty groan, the chandelier jerked once, and then plummeted to the ground below it. I saw Raoul rushing towards me, and then blackness washed over me, and I fell down into his arms.

xXxXxXx

When I came to, I found Raoul leaning over me, peering concernedly into my eyes. "Christine, are you alright?" he demanded immediately. "Were you hurt? Are you ill?"

"No..." I sat up slowly, one hand pressed against my forehead. "No, I am alright..."

The night's events suddenly returned to me, in one final rush, and I started to my feet. "Raoul, you must come with me!" I cried. "Quickly, quickly!" And we fled to the roof--the only place I could imagine, where Erik would perhaps not hear our words, could not spy upon his from the walls of that horrible theatre.

"Christine, have you gone mad?" Raoul demanded of me. "What is wrong with you?" He looked around, and curled his arms tightly around himself. "It is freezing out. Why have you brought me here?"

I stood bravely for a moment, looking him firmly in the eye. I had decided to tell him everything, to explain away all that had happened. Once I had tried to tell him about the Angel--I remembered how horribly that had gone. But this time, I assured myself, this time would be different... My resolve melted away, and I crumpled once more into his arms, weeping bitterly. "Oh, Raoul... Oh, Raoul, you shall think me insane!" I cried. "Utterly.. insane...!"

He murmured silly nothings into my hair, and I buried my face into the crook of his neck. Erik had terrified me so, had been so cruel... He had killed a woman, an innocent woman, just because Carlotta had sung! He could have killed hundreds, could have killed _me_... And Raoul was so warm--not like Erik's death-cold... and he was so strong, and brave, and good... His heart was so kind... And I had been so cruel... Cruel, like Erik!

I told him everything that night, told him of the angel, and of being taken down to Erik's lair, and of seeing what lay behind that mask... I even betrayed such warm, heartfelt secrets as the night Erik and I had spent beside that beautiful country lake, of our conversation on nightingales... I relayed our walk in the park, and how he had almost proposed, and how I had almost accepted, and how stupid I now felt for having loved him, even though that was not true... I told him about the Ancient Mariner, about the spider, about the man in the funny red cap... I told him of Erik's music, and Erik's anger, and all the terrible things he had done. I told him how much he frightened me, and how I was afraid I would be kept forever in that tomb. I told him about all the things Erik knew that he should not have, about the portrait of that woman on Erik's mantle who looked so much like me! I told him of how Erik had kept me prisoner in that place, had repeatedly almost struck me for silly anger, how he had wept when I had seen the horrible thing that lay beneath his mask... I told him of the Ancient Mariner again, told him how much that poem had frightened me--that woman, I said, she was Death's consort, and I feared that I would be too! That I would be so pale, and so death-like, just as she was, and just as Erik was, when he was not so magically transformed! Of how he had seen me, and touched me, in ways inappropriate for a man and a woman who were not wed, how he had acted so inappropriately, so against every social grace.

I told him everything, but only everything bad. I did not tell him of Erik reading poetry to me, of Erik comforting me when I had been frightened by nightmares. I did not tell him of Erik teaching me things, of Erik showing me the beauty of the Persian fairy tales, and of all the strange and fascinating things that were in his house, alongside all the terrifying ones.

I told him everything horrible, because horrible was all I could think of just then, and he listened in silence and comforted me when he could. And when I had finished, I thought I heard a sound nearby; I looked up, and for just a moment, could have sworn I saw Erik's two glowing eyes staring so accusingly at me. I cried out, and Raoul assured me they were only distant torches upon a neighboring roof, but still I felt faint with fear.

"We must leave this place," Raoul said, hands clasping my own tightly. "We will leave, and never return, and all shall be well with the world. He cannot follow you anywhere, cannot hurt you once you are out of his reach."

I nodded dumbly, and let him lead me towards the stairs. However, I did not truly agree with him--the knowledge of Erik, and Erik's pain, hurt me far more than Erik himself ever could. I had betrayed him, betrayed his every secret to a man he considered his enemy. Had he deserved that? Had he deserved such mistreatment at the hands of the woman he loved?

_I am trusting you, Christine, with this secret... _

_I love you..._

_"Christine!"_

I started, and turned quickly around--but saw nothing upon the rooftop. Shivering, I allowed Raoul to draw me inside, and to put his coat about my shoulders. Soon, he said. Soon, we will leave this place, and he will never hurt you again. I made him no reply, just allowed him to tug me ever onwards, leading me as if I were a little child, altering the path of my destiny--and I could not bring myself to argue. Fear and uncertainty had instilled apathy in me, and I was like a catatonic, doing only as my current puppeteer wished me to.

"I am sorry, Erik," I whispered, but no one heard me.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Blindly I staggered across the Garnier's roof, catching myself upon the base of a statue moments before dropping hard onto my knees. The pain did not register on me, and neither did the cold of the winter air. Snow was beginning to fall around me, a few icy flakes landing upon the cheeks of my mask. They did not melt there, but remained—for what heat existed, to warm them into water? No, as snow they came, and as snow they continued, and soon my black mask had begun to look almost white. My head dropped until my chin was on my chest; my breath whistled harshly in my lungs, burning with every breath.

Her voice still rang in my ears, as if still she stood upon this roof, telling that stupid boy all my dearest secrets. So quickly, they had spilled forth into the world; it had taken so little time, so little effort, to lose the privacy I had spent nearly fifty years wrapping protectively around myself. And now, all of it was gone—gone, because of one silly girl who, against all my better judgment, I had allowed into my confidences…

Hardly could I breathe now beneath the mask, but I dared not remove it—not that I now had much reason to keep secret that which Christine had already unmasked… I laughed bitterly, mirthlessly, at the horrible pun I had made, and allowed myself to sink further down, onto the rooftop, as snow piled up around me. A veritable blizzard had begun—a perfect end to my night of tragedy—and the cold was welcome, and so I allowed it to sink into my bones.

This stillness was a different one than I had experienced in the cathedral, weeks ago. This was the stillness of hopelessness, of pain and suffering so immense that there was nothing left to do but lie down and admit to defeat. She had turned me aside more completely, more irreversibly, than was even fathomable.

At the drained end of such fury as had just moments ago possessed me, I felt sapped completely of all will to move; what had occurred just now, beneath the gaze of Apollo and his lyre, served not to energize me further. I lay my head upon a pillow of snow, and allowed my eyes to close against the world which sought so to interfere with the happiness I had begun to mold from the muck and mire that my life had become. I did not understand Christine's unhappiness with me; I had treated her with every kindness, had set her free from me and never even asked her to return. I had not disturbed her happiness, had left her to exist as she would, had left her to see if she would come back to me on her own. She had not, and still I had left her in peace! Tonight had frightened her so terribly, but it did not make sense to me why.

I opened my eyes briefly, and found the world too cruel—immediately I shut them again, like a child who believes he can remain safe from monsters if his head is beneath the coverlet.

She had been close to the falling chandelier, yes, but not nearly close enough! Did she not believe that I knew what I was doing? Few mistakes I ever made in my little escapades about the opera—and when I did, they usually served to my own disadvantage, and not others'. Why, then, did she think me so incapable? Never would I have allowed harm to befall her… Had I not proven as much, again and again?

She had rejected me, had denounced my very presence to the man I hated most in this city—and she had known exactly what she was doing. Certainly, she could not have doubted the repercussions of such a confession to the Vicomte de Chagny—surely, surely! Bitter tears welled beneath my eyelids, and began to slip between the cracks, though I did my best to trap them within.

Stupid child. Stupid, stupid child! Was I even safe beneath the Garnier, anymore? Would a mob come seeking me with torches and pitchforks? Would I suffer, like Frankenstein's monster? Would they hunt me down, like Dracula, like the wolfman, and burn me at the stake for the beast, for the horrendous mutation that I was?

Further I buried my face into the steadily-rising snow, as if to vanish beneath that white blanket would be to vanish from the world entirely. Perhaps I would die there, laid out upon the roof, in the same spot where I had stood and heard her vicious monologue of how terrible and beastly I was, of what a monster I was. It was clear how she felt about me, now, clear that she could never love me. What a fool I had been! What was a mask, after all, when I still was what lay beneath it? No façade would ever change what was beneath it, no matter how artfully done, or how well it could deceive the eye, the finger, the lips. I would always be Erik, just Poor Erik, the Living Corpse.

I made a weak attempt at moving, and found that I could not. Snow weighted me down, my limbs felt lifeless. I sank back against the gentle fluff, allowing myself to be numb, to be motionless, to be for all appearances a corpse in truth. Still my heart beat strong against my chest, as if out of spite; I ignored it, opened my eyes and stared up into the Parisian sky. Beautiful, the stars against the velvet night, twinkling and distant—so far away, perhaps, that I appeared to them as beautiful as did they to me.

* * *

Nadir found me on the rooftop, snooping about as usual—he found me there, barely more than a lump beneath the snow. Brave, kind man that he was, he dug me free, and escorted me back below. I sank down onto the sofa in my parlor, which still smelled a bit of Christine and her so-distant presence. Nadir lit a fire for me, changed me out of my soaking clothes and wrapped a housecoat around me. He told me that a woman had died, told me how horrible I was. I only stared into the fire, eyes slowly slipping shut again, and refusing to open.

After a little while, he left me.

Still half-numb, I reached up weakly to peel away the mask which sat so uncomfortably against my face. I dropped it to the floor, where it landed with a quiet thud; my eyes never opened. I felt so exposed without that mask, so exposed without the mask which Christine had torn away from me. The fire I felt dancing upon my dead skin, and unconsciously I strained towards it. For a moment, I imagined life returning, tingling, to the nose that was not. However, when I opened my eyes, when I raised my fingers to my face, it was the same Poor Erik as had greeted me every morning until the last few months.

I lay upon the couch for some time, wrapped just barely in my robe, eyes drifting between half-open and closed, sometimes staring into the fire, sometimes falling in and out of fitful dreaming in the darkness. The logs burned out, and the fire died; still, I imagined I could feel the warmth trying and failing to seep into my weary bones.

I heard a footstep in the hall, and my eyes began to slide open—fighting, struggling their way upwards, arguing endlessly against the weariness that begged them to just close, and never again open. It had been a kindness beyond what I had ever expected of Nadir, for him to have so rescued me, even after having done something as terrible as I had; he deserved to be greeted, to be thanked, to be recognized at least, if nothing else.

My study door opened, and Christine walked in, with Raoul and the _corps de ballet_ trailing behind her. She crossed silently to my side, and I tried to move, but found that I could not—my body was weightless, but powerless. I watched as she knelt beside me, watched those who were with her laughing, though I could not hear them. I could hear only her sweet voice, as she whispered to me, "Forgive me, Erik…" Her tiny hands reached forwards, caressed my cheeks… and then her nails dove into my skin, finding purchase and ripping off the face that had so haunted me.

The fire was ablaze again, and she stood, laughing, and tossed that mass of skin onto the fire. Raoul said something, but I could not hear him… and then the _corps de ballet_ lunged forth with knives, their faces suddenly contorted into those of harpies.

I gave such a start that I awoke to find myself plummeting towards the parlor floor. I landed hard beside the couch, on my back; staring up at the dark and silent ceiling, I gave a quiet sigh. My heart still beat loudly against my chest, protesting to the trials I had just put it through. I offered to it a silent apology, and then slowly began to raise myself up from the floor.

The study door opened, and for a moment, I believed my dream had been real. I gave out a feverish cry of terror, and weakly tried to drag myself farther from the door. It was just a draft, however, and soon I sank back down flat onto the floor, shivering and sweating, and tried to calm my racing pulse. With shaking breaths, I pulled myself over to the couch, and up onto it. I sank down into the cushions with a sigh, and felt my eyes slipping shut again. So nice, to just lie there and rest...

Three days passed in such a state; my memory of them is nothing more than a blur of darkness and shadows, of rising occasionally to see to needs, only to fall once more onto that sofa, wrapped only in my robe, shivering and sweating, trembling with weakness, and sleeping, dreaming, always of her, never of anything good…

On the fourth day, I heard a voice, calling my name. It was her voice, and so I did not respond, for I knew it to be another dream. Still, those sweet tones persisted, and eventually I tried to reply, though my own voice was little more than a hoarse whisper after so many days of silence and fever. The parlor door opened slowly, gliding as dreamlike as possible, and that beautiful frame entered the darkness, baring a candle shielded by her small traitor's hands.

I barely paid her any mind, knowing her to be the dream that she was. Always it happened the same way; always she came, always she hurt me—beat me, burned me, cut me, anything at all to inflict pain—and then she left again. This time, however, she came to the sofa, and merely looked down at me in horror. Was this the eternity I was to spend, then? I wondered, as I looked up at her face, contorted with fear and loathing, her fingers shaking at their hold on the candlestick. I turned my eyes away from her, forwards, past her little legs and into the empty fireplace.

The Dream set aside the candle, and knelt down in front of me. Its eyes were the same as Christine's, and penetrated me as deeply, though I barely noticed. Her hands touched my face, and for once, they felt cold to my skin. I tried to jerk away, but managed only a slight movement and a groan. The Dream's face softened, as it whispered, "What have I done? What have I done?" again and again.

I did not answer it, for it was only a dream.

The vision left me, and I was in the dark again. I was thirsty, but could not find the will to rise and fetch water, so I remained on the sofa, wishing that water would somehow pour down my throat without the effort required. When the light returned, with the Dream close behind, it was both Christine and Nadir who came to me, who knelt beside me and whispered and murmured as if concerned. I stared forwards, into the fireplace, and saw nothing else.

Suddenly there was fire, and it seemed as if it had been many hours since the darkness. There was warmth on my skin instead of cold and shadow, and the room was alight. Christine sat nearby, clutching a tiny book in her hands; Nadir was stoking the fire, and then appearing standing at the door, and then suddenly crouched before me again, touching my face, muttering to Christine. I could see her stand, and then in jolts and leaps her body would work its way across the floor; I was uncertain if it was the dream, or my own true vision, which could not quite register this movement properly.

"…in the snow…" came Nadir's voice. "On the rooftop… Apollo…"

"What have I done? What have I done?"

I wept, though I was not sure why. I could not even remember the snow, or Apollo, though I did remember what had happened that night. It was like a knife between the ribs, knowing that Christine was up above, most likely already run away with that silly Vicomte, while I existed in the darkness, with the Dream, incapable of going to her and seeking her forgiveness for all that I had done.

She was in front of me again—or, the Dream was—with her tiny hand pressed against my cheek, against my corpse's cheek. That was when I knew it was a dream for certain; she would never have touched that skin, not with such compassion, such affection. "Forgive me, Erik," she whispered, and for a moment I feared she would tear off that face again, as she had in dreams before. But this time, she did not, she only held her hand against my face and smiled ever so softly, ever so sadly.

On the fifth day, or the sixth, or the seventh—I know not what day it was—I suddenly found the strength to rise. The fire was lit, though no one was with me in the parlor. Still somewhat feverish, I struggled to discern how a Dream had lit a fire in my parlor. Still was I puzzling over such a matter, when Nadir pushed the door open. He saw me sitting up, and the tray he had in his hands crashed to the floor.

"Erik!" he cried. "We thought you would die—without doubt, we expected to find you dead!"

We? I stared dumbly at him, and then allowed my gaze to slide back to the fire. My head hurt—my entire body ached—and my vision was as if I were staring through a misty tunnel. But I could see what was happening, and understand it; I was sensible enough to know that meant I was recovering.

"I… had made you soup," Nadir was saying, as he knelt to clean up the mess he had made. "I suppose I shall have to make more."

I turned again to look at him, and found my heart warming. This was the second occasion on which he had nursed me back to health, when I had placed myself in such danger, and had done nothing prior to it to deserve his attention. Still, both times, he had remained, both times he had seen to it that I survived the ordeal. I found my warped and twisted lips wriggling themselves into a smile. "Daroga," I breathed. "Thank you…"

"Hush," he said immediately. "Lie back down. I shall bring your food in shortly." He set the tray aside, and walked over to me, pressing his hand against my forehead. He gave a slight nod to himself, and then vanished, acting for all the world like a fussy nursemaid.

I lowered myself back against the cushions, sinking my head down onto the pillow that had been placed there. Blankets they had tucked around me were pulled up once again, and I allowed my eyes to close. As I drifted back into dreaming, I was almost certain that I heard voices, but whether they came from the kitchen or from the Dream, I could not be sure.

"...fever is breaking... in the clear..."

I heard an angel's voice, and then slipped away from them entirely.

* * *

When next I awoke fully, I felt almost entirely better. I sat up slowly, struggling through the stuffiness of my head to wrap my mind around all that had occurred. The fire still burned, though it was low, and I could hear Nadir humming in the kitchen. I pushed aside my blankets, and stood slowly, shuffling like an old man into the kitchen.

Nadir looked up at me, and smiled. "Ah, so he is alive, after all!"

I sat down in my chair, and leaned my weight upon my hands. "Perhaps," I replied.

He laughed, and sat down across from me. "So optimistic," he said with a grin. "How do you feel?"

"As if I have been asleep for far too long," I answered, my head lowering. "How many days...?"

The brightness faded slightly from his eyes, and he gave me a somewhat compassionate smile. "A week, my old friend. It was less than I expected, actually; in the beginning, I thought you would never survive. Your body... it is not getting younger, you know."

I nodded silently.

"Allah punished you for your cruelty, Erik," he told me in a low voice. "You should be thankful that he was more merciful than you deserved."

I winced, and shrank back away from him, physically attempting to avoid his sudden harshness. "Please," I managed weakly.

He sighed, and gave me a little nod. "Yes, I suppose it is a little soon to be attacking you. We shall wait for your strength to return more fully."

I could not help but smile a bit, as I allowed my eyes to slip shut again. "So tired..." I whispered.

"Do not fall asleep yet," he said quickly. "Eat something first, and then you may rest again."

I did not nod, but managed to open my eyes; he correctly assumed this to be a method of agreeing, and therefore stood to heat some of the same broth he had been feeding to me. As I reflected more on the hazy memories I had of my fever-dreams, I began to recall in particular those later visions of Christine. Still puzzled over the extent of the reality of that, I fought against the weakness, the lethargy that was overtaking me again, and forced my lips to move. "Daroga... I must ask you a question."

"Mm. What is it, Erik?"

I hesitated, struggling to find the energy to ask the question. "Was... was Christine here, with me, when I was sick?"

His silence extended for so long that I knew the answer already. I could hear his own heartbeat faltering, could feel his eyes turned upon me in disgusting pity. "No, Erik," he finally said, voice soft and gentle. "No, Mlle. Daaé was not here..."

My head nodded, of its own volition, and I heaved a sigh. "No, I did not think she was..."

"She came to me, Erik. She came to me, weeping, and telling me again and again that there was something wrong with you. She... I do not know how she knew, Erik, but she knew. She begged me to go to you, until finally I did, and... well, as you know, she was correct..."

I made him no reply, only lifted my hand to hold it against my cheek, in the same place that the Dream had touched me. Bittersweet, those false memories--I almost wished I had not had my suspicions confirmed, that I could have gone on allowing myself to believe that she had truly been there with me. I had, in fact, been allowing myself to believe it for so long, that I felt lied to, betrayed.

The more I thought on it, the angrier I became, until I found myself suddenly wanting to confront her on the matter. How could she not have come? If she knew me to be in such danger, then she should by all means have come to my side, at least to see for herself the damage she had caused. I could not believe what she had done to me, what she had so willingly done, and the selfish creature had not even come to seek atonement, or to assure herself that I still lived, still survived. Obviously, not a shred of affection was left in her heart, not for me.

If there had been, she would not have left me alone, would not have let me discover her refusal of me through overhearing whispers born upon the wind. She would have told me, and not her silly boy. She would not have shared my secrets, would not have betrayed my every confidence. She had told him everything—_everything_!

Everything… almost. My head jerked suddenly from its place upon my palm, turned to stare sharply towards where I knew the Rue Scribe to lay. Nadir was startled by my sudden motion; he tried to follow my gaze, but of course found nothing but wall.

"Erik?" he inquired carefully. "What is it?"

I stood, lips parting. Surely, surely she would not… could not…

_If she could tell him everything else… why not this?_

"Christine," I breathed, and Nadir immediately believed me mad.

"It is only the fever, Erik," he said carefully, as he rose to his feet. "Christine is not here…"

"This is no delusion!" I snapped, as I began to walk forwards. His hand tried to find my arm; I shook it off impatiently. "She has the key, Nadir. She has the key!" I went to the closet, and removed my cloak and hat. "She has it, and I must get it back. It is the only way, Nadir." I swept the cloak about my shoulders, fastening it with one hand and placing my hat upon my head with the other, even as I walked out the door. I had to get the key back from her, and quickly—before she had the chance to place it in dangerous hands.

"Erik!" Nadir called after me, as I vanished into the impenetrable darkness of the Garnier's cellars. "Erik, your mask!"

My voice echoed against cold stone as I called back to him, over my shoulder, "There is no need for masks now, Daroga!"


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"_There comes an end to all things; … and this brief condescension to my evil finally destroyed the balance of my soul. And yet, I was not alarmed; the fall seemed natural, … a return to the old days…"  
_from _The Strange Tale of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde  
_by Robert Louis Stevenson

I viewed the world through a crimson haze, seeing things not as they happened but rather in jerks and flashes of madness and violence. Like the fever-dream in which Christine—ah, that cursed name!—had moved and glided and jumped across my parlor floor, I felt as if my eyes, or my mind, could not keep pace with the world as it was happening. I could not, in fact, even keep pace with my own body and its fury-driven rampage; the tunnels, I saw in odd order, passages at the end coming at the start of my journey, and vice versa, while middle passages jumped and fled from reason and logic, refusing to fall into their usual sequence. It was as if my mind had taken in and devoured the journey, and then jumbled the thing up like a puzzle before feeding the information back to me.

My legs carried me through this maze of the mind's making, taking me onwards into ever more frightening delusions. I found myself standing outside the mirror door, staring through that glass into a rosy world that was not my own, a world filled with flowers and ribbons and smiles, the air vibrating with her sweet giggles of delight as Raoul presented to her with a flourish a new bouquet of freshly-cut roses—as if she needed another floral addition to her already overflowing room. I leaned heavily against the glass, panting as my still-recovering body struggled to recuperate from the hurried and maddened journey upwards.

"Come with me, Christine," the silly boy begged. "Tonight—let's go!"

Christine looked away from him, the petals of a single rose held against lips of similar shades. "Oh, Raoul," she whispered against the rose. "I cannot…" Her eyes had drifted, and now studied her vanity; upon it, tied to a red ribbon, was the key which I had given her.

"You can," he insisted, "and you shall."

She pondered for a long moment, before nodding slowly. "After the performance, I shall go with you."

"No, now!" he said, hands clasping onto her wrists. "Let us go _now_, before you lose your nerve again!"

Her head shook, golden curls bouncing against her cheeks. "No. I must sing for him once more, Raoul. As a farewell."

He sighed. "Very well, Christine. Very well…"

Their voices faded; I was moving away, though I could not recall having wished to do so. I moved through that madman's fog, uncertain of my direction, or of the existence or passage of time. It seemed all too surreal, all too like another dream of a sick mind. There were whispers of excitement on all sides of my little passageways, giggles and squeals and singers practicing their notes. Dancers stretched and warmed up muscles soon to be put to the test; I moved past them all, noting them only in one small corner of my mind.

The sweet sounds of _Faust_, the enthusiastic cheers of a debut's crowd—these things met my ears, but I was not sure if they were or were not truth. Could her "farewell" performance truly be such an ironic one? Had she chosen this out of spite? Did she mock me? My legs knew the truth of things, even if my mind did not, and they carried me upwards, to the catwalk—they wanted me to see, wanted to show me what must be done.

Beneath me was Christine, kneeling with her arms spread before her. It was the final song, the final triumph that would be hers—she begged me, pleaded with me as she stared up into the sky, asked again and again that the angel take her to Heaven above—or, more aptly, below.

As the moment neared Marguerite's redemption, I turned away from the stage, and traveled downwards, into the forgotten places. An old man smoking a pipe stared off into the distance, seated inconveniently between myself and my destination. I destroyed that which sought to retard my progress, and my eyes watched dully as I shut off the gas that fed every light in the building.

She was mine, and I would take her with me. There would be no sweet goodbye, tonight or any night.

* * *

"Erik?"

I heard his voice calling to me, heard the tremble of fear in those familiar notes as he listened to what must have seemed, to him, to be a horrible groaning and shuffling emitting from that horrible, that beautiful, darkness. I could imagine what monsters were dancing within his head as he stared nervously from behind the cracked door, those old eyes trying in vain to look past the shaft of light that lay upon the sandy shore of the underground lake. I did not call back to him, only dragged my swooning burden onwards, into the light he cast.

"Oh, Erik! I—" He fell silent as his eyes found Christine, hanging limply in my arms. "Erik…" he breathed. "What have you done?"

"Leave us, Daroga," I panted, shoving past him and through the doorway. I released my hold on Christine, and she crumpled to the floor, appearing for all the world to be utterly lifeless.

"No!" Nadir moved forwards, hands again seeking out my arm. "Erik, listen to me. Please, you must—"

"Leave us!" I growled, and when he did not obey, I shoved him out the door. No one would interfere, not tonight—not even my old friend. My hands clasped one another tightly, twisting and tugging at each other's fingers. My lips moved and worked furiously; part of me wanted to hear what Nadir had to say, what he would tell me—the other part of me hated him for even considering meddling in my affairs. She was mine; she was mine; she was mine…

Christine whimpered, and I turned to find her eyes open and upon me. "Erik?" she whispered.

I stepped closer, and squatted beside her. "Yes, Christine," I said gently. "It is your Erik…" I reached out my hand towards her.

She gave a pitiable cry, and jerked away from me. "Don't, please!" she begged, eyes squeezing shut as tears began to stream down her face.

My fingers curled into a fist. In that one moment, I had offered her peace. I had given her the chance at gentleness, at civility, had offered her the opportunity to deal with my rational side, the side that so loved and adored her. And in those two words, she had slapped me in the face—had stabbed me through the heart. My fist slammed with all its force into the wall, inches from her head; she screamed, hands flying up to cover her as she fell onto her side, and curled into a ball.

"Very well," I snarled, rising and dragging her with me. "If this is how you wish it—" I was screaming now, hauling her down the hallway even as she struggled against me, "—then _this_, my dear," as I threw her with great force, into my study, "is how you shall have it!" And with a triumphant and flourishing bow, I slammed the door on her and locked it.

* * *

"Monsieur, Monsieur!"

Raoul turned, along with half a dozen other men, to watch as a strange-looking man in a red cap came running towards their little crowd. They were gathered outside the managers' office, each demanding to see proof that the management even still resided within; most were furious, but Raoul saw blood. Christine had been taken, and no one was even attempting to right that wrong! No one had been asked questions, no one had called for the authorities; it was as if nothing had even happened to her!

The lights had been relit in some places; the strange man looked like a demon in the hot light, which cast such frightening shadows on his features. He was nearly running, he was in such a hurry to reach them, and as he neared their group, his eyes locked onto Raoul's. Shaking hands closed on Raoul's forearm, and with trembling lips, he said, "Monsieur le Vicomte?"

Persian; there were enough of them that Raoul could recognize the accent. With a slight curl of the upper lip, Raoul brushed away the man's hands. "Yes? What do you want?"

Dark eyes darted around at the other men, watching intently; and then Raoul's arm was snatched up once again. "Come with me," the Persian instructed; he then proceeded to drag Raoul forwards, with a strength belied by his small, old appearance.

"Not that I've been given much choice," Raoul snapped, as he tried to keep pace with the man. "Where are we going, sir? I've no time for this sort of—"

Those eyes found his again, and Raoul found himself cut short by the horror he saw there. "Monsieur, I think I may know the location of something very dear to you, which you have lost." His round head turned forwards again, and his hands released Raoul's arm. "If you come with me, I will take you to it."

Raoul sucked in a breath. "You mean Christine!"

"Yes, Monsieur, I mean Christine."

It was the Vicomte's turn to grab onto someone's arm; he forced the man to turn around, as his fingers closed around the Persian's collar. "What have you done with her?" he demanded.

"I have done nothing, Monsieur!" the little man cried. "It was Erik, Monsieur—Erik has taken her!"

Raoul released the man, scowling deeply. "I knew the bastard was no good! I tried to tell her… I have never even heard the name Sartre mentioned, until that day outside her dressing-room…"

"His name is not Sartre, Monsieur," the Persian said, as he tried to smooth his wrinkled shirt. He motioned for Raoul to follow, and they continued at a hurried pace into the bowels of the opera, dark places with rooms that Raoul had never before seen, not even on his excursions with Christine. "That was a name he invented, to prevent being discovered. His true name… I do not even know if he knows it anymore, Monsieur."

"What madness is this?" Raoul followed him, eyes darting about, trying to penetrate the shadows. This part of the Garnier had yet to be returned to light; as they shoved past sweating men and weeping chorus-girls, Raoul found the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand at attention. "Is he a madman, this Erik?"

"I am afraid that he is, Monsieur." The Persian opened a door, and motioned Raoul inside. "For you see, this Erik, you know him, though you might not realize it." He shut the door, and turned to lift up an ornate box. "This Erik, Monsieur—he is the Phantom."

Raoul's lips parted in shock; the Persian opened the box, to reveal two heavy dueling pistols. "We must carry these with us, Monsieur… for protection." Raoul reached out for one, but the Persian suddenly pulled the box away.

"What, man? What is it?" he asked impatiently. "If he has her, if he truly thinks himself this 'phantom'… then there is no time to spare!"

Those dark eyes studied him for a moment, and then in strange tones, the Persian asked, "Do you love her?"

"Of course! What sort of question—"

"You answer quickly, Monsieur, but consider: _Do you love her_?"

Raoul frowned, suddenly uncertain what the answer to that really was. He had always loved Christine… hadn't he? "I…"

"Enough to carry her from this place, tonight, and do what must be done? Enough to give up anything for her, to give _everything_ for her? Enough to give even your life, Monsieur, for hers?"

Raoul looked away, down into the corner of the dusty room. He found himself unwilling to find the answer to those questions, for he feared that he knew exactly what the answer would be, and he did not want to give in to that. Finally, he set his lips in a grim line, and took up a pistol. "Take me to her."

The Persian gave a sigh. "As you wish, Monsieur."

He was not sure why, but as he followed the strange man through a hidden door at the back of the room, as he trailed after him into the darkest shadows, he began to feel as if he had failed a very important test.

* * *

Nadir found himself regretting having dragged the Vicomte into this horrible mix. When he had seemed a noble young man, vying desperately for Christine and all her love and happiness, it had appeared to be the wisest choice of action. Now, however, Nadir had seen the doubt in the young man's eyes. He was infatuated, and he had been infected with the fever of chivalry, had sought to rescue Christine from a danger he did not fully understand. He would not be a reliable companion, not against Erik and all his wrath.

The tunnels were dark, darker than usual, it seemed. Nadir steeled his nerves and plunged into the depths of Hell, with Raoul not far behind. They could take no light; it would make them too easy to be spotted. He had to rely on his memory alone, one which he had worked many long hours at honing, in case of just such an emergency. He forced his ears to listen, to hear the quiet breath of the Vicomte, to hear the slight echo of each step the two of them took, to hear the rustle of each man's clothing.

Only a few well-rehearsed turns had been taken, however, before Nadir began to hear a third step, a third rustle, a third breath. The pattern of the dripping of water that seemed a constant in the tunnels was broken by this out-of-place sound; Nadir halted, and Raoul did as well, but still the rustle continued—ahead of them, around a corner. Nadir's heart began to pound as he considered the options. Surely Erik would not be so clumsy, were he stalking them; Nadir had seen how silently Erik could move. But then, if it was not Erik, who was it? Or perhaps Erik was not aware that they were in the tunnels—but then, if he were not after them, and if Christine was below, why would he ascend?

They crept forwards on cat's paws, and peeked around the corner. There, enwrapped by a halo of light emitting from a lantern, was Erik. He was crouched at a wall, hands fiddling with something on the ground. Raoul moved forwards; Nadir caught his arm, and dragged him back, out of sight.

"We must attack!" Raoul mouthed. "While we have the chance!"

Nadir shook his head viciously. "We must follow!" he mouthed back. "To find Christine!"

They both turned to look around the corner again, at Erik. His head had risen, and those horrific eyes now stared down the passage, in their direction. "Good God," the Vicomte breathed, upon seeing the Phantom's true face. Nadir put a finger to his lips, and Raoul looked away, eyes wide with horror, and a hand pressed against his lips. He had gone lily-white; Nadir suppressed the urge to chastise the boy for his weak stomach.

It seemed an eternity that Erik stared their way in suspicion. Finally, however, he looked away from them, and back to his work. Only a few more moments passed, before he stood and, lantern swinging at his side, turned to hurry back down the passageway, with nary a glance over his shoulder. The two men moved forwards with him, always keeping one corner between them, waiting until they could just barely see the glow from his lantern before going forwards again.

When they came to where he had been crouched, they paused. It took them a long moment, but finally Nadir's old eyes picked out the glint of a wire stretched taught. He pointed it out to the Vicomte, and the two of them stepped over it with ease.

Feeling somewhat smug, though he ought to have known better, Nadir allowed himself a slight smile. Erik was getting a bit clumsy in his old age, it seemed. They marched onwards, ever following the wavering flame of Erik's lamp. Twice more he paused to work at something on the ground, and twice more they found the wire and stepped over it. After the third, Erik's pace increased, and they found they had a more difficult time keeping up with the Phantom's liquid-shadow motion.

Soon, they had taken so many turns that Nadir was not even sure where they were anymore; his knowledge of the passages was not extensive, and he was certain he had never before tread this ground. His palms grew sweaty, and the smile vanished from his lips. If they lost him—if they fell but a few steps too far behind—they would be lost, eternally, in this horrible darkness.

Suddenly, Erik's lamp went out, and they were plunged into complete shadow. Panic wrapped its icy fingers around Nadir's heart as he realized exactly what sort of death awaited them in these tunnels. No one would find them… No one would know where they were… With each step, and each turn, they would become a little more lost, and a little more terrified… Dehydration, starvation; these two things were not even on par with the worst symptom of the tunnels: the rats. The rats would eat them, even before they were dead; they would be able to listen—but not watch—as the wicked rodents chewed and slurped at the pitiable flesh on their bones...

He edged forwards, hoping against hope that he would find an end to the passage, or at least something familiar—but how would he recognize it, in this darkness? It seemed as if the world were brighter when his eyes were closed. Raoul he felt close at his shoulder, one hand hooked around his arm, to prevent separation.

Just as suddenly as the darkness had descended, it vanished; a light had flared up, behind them this time. Both spun around, to find Erik, eyes glowing, teeth bared in a dead man's grin. The shadows cast by the lantern did nothing to flatter his appearance.

It was then that Raoul realized what had happened. It had been all a trap, a complete farce. How could he have believed Erik so stupid, believed himself so smart? The wires were meant to be seen; Erik had wanted to be heard; he had moved slowly and carefully, ponderously, loudly, stupidly, only so that he would be followed.

His mouth opened wide, and he began to laugh, coldly, cruelly. That laugh was the most horrible, most frightening sound… Nadir felt his stomach turn to ice-water. He tightened his hold on Raoul's arm, and pulled him back a step. Erik advanced on them, drawing his Punjab lasso from the pocket of his coat. Nadir cried out, lifting both his and Raoul's arm up before their faces. "Erik!" he cried. "Erik, do not!"

But there was no Erik, he realized. Erik had vanished; there was only the Phantom now, only that wicked and horrible being that lurked beneath the Garnier. This was not even the Erik of Persia, which had so frightened the Daroga; no, this was something crueler, something more basic, something that was evil by instinct. Never before had the words "the Phantom of the Opera" struck fear into Nadir's heart—but now, their full meaning caught him, and he understood just why that being was so dangerous.

The Phantom continued to advance, and they continued to back away. He was laughing again—such _chilling _laughter!—and Nadir had only a moment to wonder why, before the earth dropped out from beneath their feet, and they fell into an eternity of darkness.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

The return to my home was accompanied by maniacal laughter, which rang eerily through the caverns surrounding my humble residence, and bounced back from the walls to rejoin me again. It was a shame, in part, that Nadir had been forced to fall along with the boy, but what was done was done. His loyalties obviously were no longer mine, regardless. The foolish man… After so many years, he should have known better than to cast his lot against me. They _all_ were against me, now—it was only Erik, only Erik against the rest of the world.

I unlocked the study door, and stepped within. For a moment, I could not find Christine, so distracted was I by the war zone my room had once again become. That room, which I had demolished on that day which seemed so very long ago—that room, which I had then spent so many days repairing to its former elegance—had been destroyed anew. Books and papers had been strewn about the room; a chair had been broken against a wall, and its leg used in an attempt to pry open first the study door, which had not given—only splinters of the door jamb served as testament to its struggle; the leg had then been turned against the door to my little storeroom, which had opened several inches before the chair's leg had broken in the strain. Its remains lay close by.

Eventually, my eyes found her, lying dazed in a far corner. She had not noticed my entrance, and continued not to notice as I stalked angrily towards her. As I neared, my eyes picked out the blood on the side of her head, which had matted in her hair; a large splotch accompanied it upon the wall, and streaked down to follow the path her sweet skull must have taken as she sagged to the floor.

"Christine! What have you done?" I demanded as I grabbed her arms and lifted her upwards. She gave a weak groan and fell limp against my chest. I carried her over to the chair behind my desk, which still bore the scars of our last disagreement. She very nearly fell into it, slouching down and remaining lifeless. I patted her cheek a few times, and received not even a blink in return for it. Stomach turning cold with dread, I turned away from her to find my smelling salts.

No sooner had I put my back to her, than I heard a rustle and a harsh intake of breath. I turned again, and found her with a letter opener, its point mashed threateningly against her breast. I took a step forwards, and she pressed the makeshift dagger harder against her own breastbone. "Don't, Erik!" she warned, in a broken voice. Blood from her head was seeping down through her golden hair to mingle with the tears flowing free down her cheeks. Both dripped onto her chest, traced lines around the pinprick of blood welling where the "dagger" pressed.

I moved as if to come forwards, and she opened a full wound, so hard did she press that "dagger" against herself. I sucked in a breath, and her eyes narrowed. "Don't come any closer, Erik," she warned, voice trembling, but firm all at once.

"Christine…" My own voice felt weak and broken in my throat, though my ears heard it differently. I leaned one hand against the corner of my desk; she watched it suspiciously. "Am I.. so terrible…?"

Her mouth opened, and then shut firmly; she knew better than to try an answer to that. No, she merely looked at me, and held that knife against her. A drop of blood rolled down between her breasts, and vanished beneath Marguerite's costume.

In one singular motion, I launched myself at her and snatched away the letter opener. She gave out a cry, and tried desperately to escape me; I pinned her against the chair, as I threw the "dagger" across the room. "No, no, no!" she cried, and suddenly desperation turned her limp with misery.

I used the Punjab to tie her down; she hardly struggled, reserved most of her energy for weeping. When I had finished, I found myself caught there, hanging in that moment so near to her. I could smell her sweat, her fear, and the perfume she always wore on-stage. I leaned a little closer, put my corpse's face so close to her neck, and inhaled deeply.

She whimpered, head straining to lean away from me. I breathed out against her skin, and she shivered. My hand came to rest upon the other side of her neck, as my head rose from her a bit. "Christine," I murmured softly. "I am not so dreadful as you think me to be…"

Christine strained harder, trying so desperately to keep away from me. "I will not be Death's consort!" she cried out. "You will not make me into that woman, Erik—so lifeless, so cruel! I won't let you!"

I stood, and backed away from her. Somewhere far away, I knew that those words had killed me, knew that my heart was broken into far too many pieces and scattered all about the dirty streets of Paris. But that part of me was many hundreds of miles away, drifting through the desert sands of the Persian lands, lost and confused there, but happy, for it was so very far away from the troubles and pains to which this other part of me had just borne witness.

"Very well," I said, breath exhaling with almost a growling sound. Where I was now, I had no heart to break—I would deal with that other part of me later, much later. I would let her kill me later. For now, I faced her with dry eyes and a cold smile, made all the more chilling by my awful countenance. "My dear… I have a surprise for you…" And I laughed.

* * *

I snatched hold of the back of her prison-chair none too roughly, and dragged her out of the study and down the hall. I shoved her into the parlor; her chair went rolling wildly within, slowing only after it bumped the sofa arm and began to spin somewhat lazily away. I slammed the door shut, and stalked within, but did not go to her. Instead, I went to the back wall of the parlor—a bare wall, adorned only by a painting. I lovingly lifted the painting aside, propping it against the back of the sofa. Beneath it lay a small square of wall, somewhat at odds with the rest of the wall. It was one of my more obvious door handles; I had made it so purposefully, for there was nothing I loved more than for the unsuspecting to stumble upon my special room.

I pressed my fingers against that square, and the wall panel rolled back to reveal a glass wall. "We can see them, Mademoiselle," I said with a laugh, "but do not fear—I assure you, they cannot see us."

When I turned to her, however, I was annoyed to find that her chair had turned itself away. I walked over and rather forcefully turned her towards that glass wall. "Behold!" I cried, with a flourish of the arm. "Your brave saviors, Mademoiselle Daaé!" I reeled back in a fit of laughter as she cried out in horror.

The Vicomte and his new friend were both trapped within that frightening room, that most horrible of rooms, that most magnificent of my inventions. They were crazed already, though it could not have been more than half an hour since they had fallen. Raoul was stumbling about the room like a madman, while Nadir was systematically pressing his fat fingers against every inch of every mirrored panel he could reach, though he seemed to occasionally pause, as if uncertain of where he had originally begun.

"My God, Erik, what have you done to them?" she demanded of me, as her tears increased tenfold.

I cackled gleefully, like a child whose prank has gone exactly according to plan. Everything seemed so perfect, so flawless. For what more could I have asked? –No, better not to ask that question. There were too many answers.

"That, my dear heart," I told her gladly, "is my greatest invention. It is a torture chamber, Christine! Do you see the forest? Can you see it?"

She shook her head, trembling. "I see only a tree, and mirrors, Erik… And it is hot!"

I laughed. "Were you within that chamber, you should think quite differently. It is not only hot, Christine, it is deadly in that chamber! It is as hot as an African forest, and there is nothing at all to drink." I lowered my head, looked at her for a moment as if serious. "Can you imagine that, Christine? Being always thirsty, and never able to drink?"

Raoul was beating his hands against a mirror and calling out—he could hear us. "Christine, Christine!" he called, his voice muffled behind that thick glass. "Stop it!" Nadir was shouting. "Stop it, stop that! Vicomte, stop it!"

But Raoul would not—he had heard the voice of his angel, and somehow took it as meaning salvation. "Please!" he called. "Please, Christine! Christine!"

I could not help but laugh, at the way he called to her, as if she held the power of his life and death. But then, I supposed, he was right to call to her, for she _did _hold that most important of keys. She was exactly the one who would dictate how many lived on this night, and how many died.

"Erik! Erik!" she cried out, trying to turn her face away from the sight before her. "Please, stop this! Let them out of there! Oh, Erik, I cannot bear it!"

I turned her chair away from the sight, turned her to face me. She slowly opened her eyes, red and swollen with tears, and allowed her lips to part. She saw my resolve softening, saw my will weakening, and she saw her chance at success. However, before she could speak and further destroy my confidence in my actions, I ever so gently placed a hand over her mouth. "A moment, my dear—allow me to speak," I said, in gentle tones; she nodded slowly, and I lowered my hand.

"I've a deal to make with you, Christine," I said slowly. "There is a choice you must make, and when you have made it, you will have sealed the fates of many." Her eyes widened; she felt the walls of the trap closing around her. "Before eleven o'clock, my dove, you must have made your choice: the Requiem mass, or the Wedding mass." I stood, and walked to the glass wall; with a brush of my fingers, the wall panel closed across it again, sealing away the sights, though not the sounds, of the men on the other side.

"Erik?"

I walked across the room, to the fireplace mantle, where I placed two figurines: a grasshopper, and a scorpion. "These are the keys to life and death, Christine. Turn the grasshopper if you wish never to see me again—turn the scorpion, if you would have me as your own." I turned away, but then paused. "And remember, Christine—when the grasshopper jumps, he goes so very, very high."

"Erik, no," she whispered, as I slowly untied her bindings. "Erik, don't do this!" she begged, turning and catching my wrists in her sweet hands. It was, I think, the first time she had made a move to voluntarily touch me, since the night of my unmasking.

I lingered beneath that touch for a moment, caught by the feeling of her soft hands, so hot against my icy skin. For a moment, I could almost have sworn that those fingers moved just a bit, caressed the skin beneath them just a bit.

No, I realized—it was fear and disgust that caused her to tremble. She hated me. I jerked my hands away from her, and went to the door of the parlor. "I've an errand to run. Please, Christine—do not do anything stupid, while I am gone?" I shut the door before I could see the heartbreak in her face.

* * *

I pounded my tiny fists against the parlor door, screaming for him to come back. My voice already was shattered, such screaming had I done in the hours leading up to this one; I could taste blood in my throat, and even bleeding seemed to deepen the wound, if I did it too quickly. And yet still, it seemed I knew not what to do except to call for him, beg him not to leave me to this fate. "Erik!" I cried, again and again, but never did an answer come.

Finally, I did hear an answer, but not from Erik—a sharp whisper came from the torture chamber's wall. "Christine! Christine, can you hear me?"

I rushed to the wall, pressed myself against it—immediately regretted that, for the wall was scaldingly hot. I jumped back with a cry, and then stepped close again to it. "I hear you!" I called. "Nadir, is that you?"

"Yes, Christine!" he called, and I felt suddenly so relieved that I almost collapsed. Always in the past, Nadir had known what to do. So many times, it seemed, he had rescued me; surely he would do so now, as well?

"Nadir, oh Nadir… Whatever shall I do?" I sobbed. "What has happened, Nadir? Why is he so angry?"

He was long silent, as if very carefully considering the answer he would give. Finally, "Must you truly ask, Christine?"

I gasped in a sob, as pains of the worst kind vibrated through my frame. "Oh, Nadir…"

"He saw you, Christine," the gentle voice said. "He saw you, many times, while he was ill, and I told him what you wished—that you were not here, though still I do not understand—and then what could he believe but that he had been dreaming? He thought himself betrayed, wholly and fully…"

"Oh, Erik," I breathed, slumping to the floor. "I am so sorry…"

"Christine?"

I shook myself from my reverie. "Yes, Nadir? …How is Raoul?" I added as an afterthought, driven almost by some strange remnant of propriety.

He hesitated. "The Vicomte is… not well, Christine. You must listen to me." I leaned closer to the wall, obediently. "He will destroy us all, Christine. He will destroy every last one of us; the way he speaks, it is language of the sort I have not heard since our days in Persia, Christine. Erik does not threaten lightly."

I shook my head, eyes falling down to Marguerite's skirt. "This is not Erik, Nadir, who is making such awful threats. Erik would never…" I sighed, suddenly at a loss for words. "I have to find Erik. That is how we will survive this awful ordeal. Without Erik, we will all be killed."

I heard a _click _behind the wall, and Nadir gasped. "A passage! Christine, I have found a passage!"

"Be careful!" I cried. No answer came, and I was left at the wall in silence, my gaze unwillingly drawn to the two black coffins which bore my crucifixion, or Erik's salvation. Those figurines seemed so innocent, as if they played such an unwitting part in our elaborate opera. Erik had written this one well; I wished only that I knew how it would end. Better yet, I wished it could end, and then I could leave the theatre and go home, wished I did not have to live with the repercussions of this finale.

"Allah have mercy," I heard Nadir say within the chamber. My head cocked towards the wall again, though the figurines continued to exist on the edge of my consciousness, as if threatening me still with their ominous presence. "He is going to demolish the Garnier!"

* * *

As I neared the parlor door, I heard quick and frenzied voices. "Quick, I hear him! He is coming, he is coming!"

I opened the door, surprised to realize that I had forgotten to lock it. Strange, that Christine had not even thought to try the handle. I stepped within and found Christine lingering in the middle of the room, unsure of where she should be. I closed the door behind me, and walked towards her, with a mass of beautiful white lace draped over my arm.

"I've a gift for you, Christine," I said softly, extending the thing towards her.

"Another dress, Erik?" she asked with a smile, as she took it from me. The sweetness, the playfulness in that voice took me off-guard; I leaned back on my heels, and regarded her suspiciously as she looked at the dress.

Her mouth formed into an "O", and I saw some of the lightness fade from her gaze, though she tried her best to hide it. She turned pale, as she looked at me. "A… wedding dress, Erik?"

"Or your funeral gown," I said coldly. "It is whichever you prefer, my dear." I turned away from her, clutching the encased and completed score of _Don Juan Triumphant _to my chest. Whatever my fate, it would follow with me—if she brought me into the light, then it would come as well; and if she resigned us all to a fiery death, then so would be the score's fate.

Christine clutched the dress to her chest, watching me with terrified eyes. "Erik…"

"Put on the dress," I said, my voice now lacking in emotion. I felt suddenly drained, numb and cold and empty. I could not help it—it seemed so fitting.

I turned away from her, turned to watch the empty fireplace, and the two sweet statues which lurked upon its mantle. The grasshopper and the scorpion. Life and death. Her life, my death. Or, perhaps, it was she who would die, regardless of what choice was made. I wondered if it would be she bringing me into the light… or me, dragging her into the darkness, without even a trail of breadcrumbs to show her the way home?

"Erik?" she called softly; I turned my head to one side in answer, though my eyes were downcast. "Erik," she tried again, "how do I look?"

I turned to face her; with many a rustle, she turned a little circle for me, and then fastened her eyes onto mine with hope burning fiercely within them. I let out a sigh, and pressed my hand against my aching chest. "You are beautiful, Christine," I breathed.

"And now, another gift for you," I said, pulling two sweet powders from my pocket. "You see, Christine, there is no need for me to ever be ugly again." I mixed the powders upon the table, talking to her as I prepared the needle. "I can look as you wish me to look for eternity, Christine. No masks, no ugliness at all. I can be beautiful, like you are, Christine. You will see."

I turned back to face her, and rolled up my sleeve. My gaze lowered to find the needle; when it rose again, I found her standing next to me. Her sweet hand moved to cover the abused veins on my arm, and her eyes met mine. I could hear my heart beating loudly in my ears, could feel my pulse drumming against the back of my skull as I waited, breathless, longing to hear what I hoped she would say.

"Don't," she whispered, her other hand taking the needle and casting it aside.

"Christine! Christine!" The boy was screaming again, fists pounding against the wall. I could hear Nadir trying to hush him, but once again it was no good. Christine's gaze remained on mine for a moment, and in that brief moment, I was certain I had won her.

"Christine, please!" the boy cried, and this time, her eyes twitched. It was just a bit, but it was there nonetheless, that desire to go to him. Roughly I pushed her away from me. "Go!" I growled. "Go and try to comfort him—little good it will do you, or him!" I said with a snarl.

Cunning child that she was, she pressed that small square, watched as the wall panel drew back once more. Raoul was stumbling about blindly again, with a pistol pressed to his temple. Christine screamed, and threw her hands against the glass. It was only a heartbeat before she had cried out again, and jerked back, with blisters already forming on her hands. Nadir half-tackled the boy, throwing him and the pistol down. I watched, uninterested, as their little drama played out. What did it matter, if the boy shot himself? He would die anyway…

I must have voiced my sentiments aloud, though I did not realize it; Christine turned to look at me, hands cradled against her chest, tears flowing anew. "You horrid man!" she cried, anger suddenly turned against me. "You wicked, terrible beast!" She flew at me, injured hands curling into fists, which began to beat against my chest for a moment, before she merely went limp with crying.

I caught her as she fell, and her fists grabbed hold of my jacket's lapels. "I hate you!" she hissed, even as she collapsed against me, her head burying into the crook of my neck. I felt her tears against my throat, felt them running down beneath my shirt and onto my shoulder and collarbone—a few even found their way in a trickle down my chest, before being caught up by my shirt's fabric. Aching, I clutched her against me; she did not seem, for some reason, to much mind it.

We stood that way for a long moment, brought together by pain and heartache, a mutual dissatisfaction with one another, and with our respective lives and how they were playing out. It was not a bad communion, for the slight time that it lasted. Finally, however, her tears began to subside, though hiccups of sobs still remained. In a half-whisper, she said again, "I hate you, Erik."

One corner of my lips lifted in a humorless smile. I pulled back just enough to look down at her; she met my gaze with a frown. "You loved me, once," I said.

Her eyes fell to my chest; fists slowly released my now-wrinkled lapels, and made an attempt to smooth them. "Yes," she said, sounding sick with grief, "that night in the park, Erik, I loved you wholly and truly."

"You knew, then, didn't you?" I asked her slowly. "You had suspected already, and then, you knew?"

She sighed, and took a step backwards. "On the contrary, Erik… I thought. It made sense, but I could not connect all the tiny pieces, pieces which now seem much more obvious." I nodded, eyes turning down to the floor. Christine's hand raised to touch my cheek, and caught a solitary tear which had leapt from the rim of my eye to its death.

"I am sorry, Christine," I whispered, as hysterical sorrow began to overwhelm me. I felt the gasps tearing my lungs, whistling in and out in too-quick succession. I fell to my knees, and for a moment thought the pain of that impact would kill me.

"Why did you do it, Erik?" she insisted, as if afraid I would die at her feet, and certain that she must have her answer first. "Why? Why did you do it? You must tell me, Erik!"

I let out a horrible sob, and fell prostrate at her feet. My hands covered those sweet appendages, caught up the hem of her dress and pressed it to my lips. "For love," I panted, and cried. "I did it.. for love… Only for love, Christine… I did it.. because I love you…!"

She was crying as well, as she fell to the ground and put her soft arms around my neck. I returned the embrace out of reflex, though I was uncertain why she was hugging me. And oh, but she clung so tightly to me, as if it meant life and death! Her sweet face pressed against my neck, and she held herself tight to me, and I held myself tight against her as the halo of her golden hair surrounded me.

"I was there, Erik," she whispered against my skin. "When you were ill—it was I who found you, I who nursed you, I who sang to you when your fever-dreams turned to nightmares. I was there every day, and every night, until you became well…"

I hesitated, finding myself somewhat stunned. "Nadir said…"

She shook her head against the skin of my neck. "A lie, Erik. A stupid, foolish lie… A lie borne by pride, and anger—but a lie. I was there, Erik."

Relief washed over me in a tidal wave; I kissed her hair, one hand pressing against her lower back as the other cradled her skull, lovingly, tenderly holding her to me, and my body reveling in the closeness, in the _unity_ that I suddenly felt with her. The world seemed suddenly flawless.

She pulled back, and her eyes found mine. With a quiet smile, and eyes so innocent and honest that I was immediately seduced, she asked of me, "Please, Erik—open the chamber. Let them go. We have no need of them now."

As if enchanted, I stood, and she took my hand and walked with me as I moved towards a far less obvious trigger. My fingertips brushed it, but did not press; instead, I turned to her, and frowned. "You have made your decision?" I asked.

Christine's lips parted, pressed together, parted again. Finally, she nodded; "Yes, Erik, I have decided."

I turned and put my back to the glass wall, my hand slipping free of hers. She watched me with brows furrowed, head cocked ever so slightly to the side. I pointed to the mantle; her eyes followed my motion, and then returned to me, to meet my gaze. "If you have made your choice, then make it in full," I said, gently but firmly.

She gave a nod, and moved to the fireplace. She stood there for a long moment, hesitating, as if frozen. She knew what this meant, and it frightened her, the finality of it all, I think. It took her many a minute, or so it seemed, before she reached up and tentatively turned the scorpion.

I heard a rumble, and knew that water was even now flooding the room beneath our feet, drowning out thousands of pounds of gun powder, ruining it forever, and making impossible the beautiful finale I had earlier planned.

Christine was looking over my shoulder expectantly, at the torture chamber. I saw her eyes begin to narrow, and then widen, and finally her lips began to part. "Erik… Erik, there is water!"

"Yes," I said slowly, stepping away from the wall. "It has destroyed our end, Christine, so that there never need be one."

"No, Erik… Water!" she cried again, pointing behind me. I turned, and saw the water that was flowing through the trap door and into the chamber. Nadir was panicking; Raoul seemed beyond understanding. My old friend flew to the wall, pounding against it, eyes peering desperately into the room, coming eerily close to finding my gaze.

"Erik! Help them!" my angel screamed, eyes flying between me and the chamber in desperation. "Why aren't you helping them!"

"We must put it all behind us," I intoned. "They will only interfere…"

"_Erik!_" she cried. "_Please!_"

They were floating now, and Nadir was trying desperately to find the original trapdoor, which had put them there in the first place. Christine cried for me again, searching around the place where she thought I had moved to release them. She was screaming my name, begging me, pleading with my mercy; I was hypnotized by Nadir and the Vicomte's bodies spinning around the room like ragdolls.

"Erik," she growled, "if you love me, you will release them!"

I tore my gaze away from them, settled it upon her. I took in the blood, the tears, the misery that constituted her every inch, and suddenly felt compelled to do nothing but please her, make up all the misery I had caused her. I went to her side, and my fingers effortlessly found the trigger. The wall pulled back mercilessly quickly, and water flooded the study.

At the last moment I pulled Christine aside, and we watched as the water rushed into the room and began to pool around our feet. Already it was beginning to recede, flowing back into the caverns far below and leaving us soaked and freezing. Nadir and Raoul both were splayed out on the floor, motionless; Christine rushed to Raoul, rolling him onto his back. "Erik, help them!" she cried, but I was in no danger of growing tired of that plea; I was not accustomed to being referred to as a savior, and I rather liked it. Both men were rousing from their stupor, but barely; Nadir was coughing hard enough to do damage to himself, while Raoul was moaning miserably.

I turned away from them, intent upon fetching the tools with which to do that which my beloved desired. There was a sudden movement, one I heard but did not see. Christine screamed, a sound that was cracked and horrible to observe; I could imagine what pain her throat was in. Nadir cried out as well, but that sound was almost covered up by a far louder, far more awful sound: the sound of a gunshot. That sound was so loud and fierce, it felt almost as if I had been physically struck. So real was that illusion that I truly lost my footing, falling to the parlor floor.

Strange, this pain blooming suddenly in my chest, this burning accompanied by a wetness spreading across my face, and my neck.

Strange, this complete blackness that had suddenly begun to wash over my vision, even as Christine's screams and sobs faded into the distance.


	19. Chapter 19

—_A/N—  
__Get ready for something reeaaally sad!_

* * *

Chapter 19

My eyes opened to the sight of sopping-wet carpet, stained red with something that looked eerily like blood. I raised my head, and felt a brilliantly sharp pain in my neck, directly below my ear. I raised my hand and found a long wound, where a bullet had grazed my throat. I pushed myself upwards, turned to look behind me. Christine was still sobbing; Nadir had barely recovered, still, from nearly drowning; and Raoul was standing, one shoulder leaned against the wall, breathing hard. I was not certain how long I had been out, but obviously it had not been long.

"Erik!" Christine cried. Raoul's head snapped up, and his hand began to raise as well; I found myself staring down the barrel of his pistol. For the first time in decades, a stroke of fear shot through me, though part of me was certain that it could not be loaded.

"Raoul, don't!" my angel urged. "Please!"

I saw his hand fumbling to cock the pistol, and decided it was not, could not be worth the risk that perhaps it _was_ loaded; my hand reached for the Punjab. The Vicomte's eyes followed my motion, eyebrows furrowing. I took that moment of confusion as my window, and in one fluid motion yanked free the lasso and cast its wicked net.

I caught him around the throat, and with a jerk had him on his knees. The pistol fell to the ground as his hands flew to his neck, clawing desperately at a rope too thin to grasp. Christine screamed again, and threw herself at me. Her arms caught the hand that held the lasso, pulling desperately but to no avail. "Erik, Erik, don't!" she cried again and again, as I tightened my hold, tightened the noose, tightened the grip on the Vicomte's life.

"You asked me to spare him once, Christine," I growled, as Raoul began to show serious signs of oncoming death. "He would have killed me, Christine, would have shot me in the back!" I turned my eyes to hers, seeking understanding; I found none.

"Do not, Erik!" she begged, tugging again at my arm. "Please! For me!"

So shocked, so numbed was I by her insistence that I save him, my fingers began to loosen. When they did, Nadir caught hold of the catgut and pulled it away from me, immediately moving to free Raoul. I remained where I was, rooted to the ground, my eyes stuck on hers. I could not understand what she asked of me, what she expected of me—and suddenly, I could. It was a lie; she had lied, to save him. Somehow, I was not amazed.

Raoul fell onto his side, gasping loudly and miserably, drinking up the air as if it were water in the desert. Nadir was hovering over him, asking him if he was alright, trying to help him sit up. Christine did not even glance over at them, however; she remained where she was, looking at me, tears welling in her eyes. "I am sorry," she whispered, and then I was certain that my suspicions were correct.

She would have been relieved, I realized then, if the Vicomte's shot had hit its mark.

"Christine…" I breathed.

The angel turned away from me, went to the side of the Vicomte. I watched her go, and then stumbled over to the couch, which I nearly fell onto. I leaned against the back of it, slowly easing my entire body onto it until I lay spread out. I gave a long and shuddering breath, and then almost immediately began to cry. I felt almost a child, but I could not help it. Disappointment and misery swelled through me with every breath, more and more seeping into me until it felt that I could hold no more. I was ashamed; I felt a fool, as if I had played into her hands and swallowed her every lie so very willingly. But I could not hate her for it—there was no room for that emotion in me, not now.

I wished then that Raoul _had _killed me, that in that one moment he had utterly destroyed me. I wished desperately that my life had ended while still I believed to somehow possess the love and adoration of a woman, of the only woman who ever had captured my every ounce of love. I wished so much that I had bled out my miserable existence onto my parlor floor, wished that I had been put out of my misery, eternally.

I could hear the Vicomte urging her to come with him, could hear Nadir insisting they both leave immediately. She was speaking, but I could not understand her; I could only hear the tones, half-ruined now by all her screams. I wondered idly if she would ever sing as she once could—and then wondered if she would ever sing again, at all. Would she leave that behind her, along with me? Bury her songs forever, hide them with me in my grave? I almost hoped she would—I wanted none to possess them, if I could not.

I had known from the beginning that the entire ordeal, the entire affair was doomed. Such a being could never love a corpse; angels could not consort with demons.

Movement passed in my field of vision, and soon a vision with a golden halo, in pure white robes, had come to stand before me. For a moment I thought I finally had died, and that the angels had come to lift me up—but certainly there was no way I could ever gain entrance to the gates of Heaven; perhaps they had come to mock me and humiliate me, carrying me halfway there before dropping me, and watching me plummet endlessly into the darkness of Hell, as had my own angel?

But no, it was no divine apparition—it was the woman who had so very nearly saved me, and who finally had instead slaughtered me. She kneeled before me, hands finding my own; her head cocked, as her own tears began to flow anew. I reached for her, for her cheek, and she eagerly pressed it against my hand, as one of her own tiny fists curled around my wrist. The other grabbed hold of my other hand, and her fingers entwined with it almost desperately. My cries had calmed considerably, and her own tears were silent and dignified in their grief. She knew what it was she had done, and seemed almost sorry for it.

"Christine, I love you…"

She released a single sob, a sob that came almost as a bark of laughter. "Oh, Erik," she murmured, smiling sadly. "Erik, I am so sorry…!"

I managed to return the smile, just a bit, though there was only sadness behind it. After a moment, my hand dropped from her face, and I turned my gaze to focus past her and behind her, on emptiness. "Go," I whispered. "Go with him, and leave me."

She was silent for a long moment; she did not believe that I would let her go so easily. She thought it was a trap, a trick—she did not trust me to make such a sacrifice for her. I reached out and gave her a light shove. "Go!" I said again, this time with more force.

"But…"

"Go!" I shouted, eyes finding hers. "Leave me!"

"No!"

I frowned, confused by this. "What?"

"No!" she repeated. After a moment, when it became clear that I did not understand, she held up her left hand. "Erik," she said softly, "look!" Upon her finger was the ring I had given her, so long ago; she smiled hopefully. "Do you see, Erik? It is your ring!"

My eyes moved from the ring, back to her own. "But, Christine… Your young man—he is waiting for you!"

She shook her head, smiling tearfully. "Erik, _you_ are my 'young man'… I am going nowhere, unless it is at your side!" She laughed a bit, looking down at herself. "I have the ring, Erik, and the dress—now I need only a priest to complete the set!"

"Do not be ridiculous!" I cried. "I am giving you a chance, Christine—I am giving you the opportunity to leave me, effortlessly and painlessly. There is no more need for subterfuge, no more call for pretense."

"Stop it!" she shouted suddenly. "Stop it, stop it, stop it! You stupid, stubborn child!" I opened my mouth to protest, but she kept going. "I am here because I want to be, Erik!" She paused, and when I made no move to speak, she continued. "Do you remember what you said, Erik, when you gave me this ring? You said that for as long as I should wear it, you would know that I still belonged to you. I am wearing it, Erik, and it is because I belong to you!"

I stood, stepped past her and to the unlit fireplace. The other two men had gone from the room, but somehow could still feel them in my home. They were waiting for her; I was certain of it. "You are being stupid, Christine," I said in low tones. "Your champions await you."

I turned back to her, and found her standing almost directly behind me. She reached up, pressed both of her palms against either side of my neck. "Erik, it is like you cannot hear me when I speak to you…" She stepped closer, looked deep into my eyes. "So perhaps, speaking is not the proper course of action." And without another breath, she rose up onto her toes, and then, she kissed me.

* * *

—_A/N—  
__Just kidding! But don't worry; it isn't THAT easy; this isn't the end of things for our dear Phantom!_


	20. Chapter 20

—_A/N—__  
I'm sorry. _

* * *

Chapter 20

"Christine! What are you doing?"

I turned my head, so sharply that a vertebrae popped, to look upon Raoul's drenched figure, hulking in the doorway, looking at me with utter betrayal written across his features. It was true—I had lied to him. I had told him I would be only a moment, and then we would go—but Erik had been so horrifyingly upset…

I stepped back, hands coming to press against the underneath of my jaw. "I don't know," I whispered, eyes darting between Erik and Raoul. It was so confusing! When I looked upon Erik, I felt a flurry of sick dread echo through me with every heartbeat—but so long as I concentrated only on his sadness, and on the utter elatedness that had followed my kiss, then I felt only happiness. To have seen, even for just a moment, that grotesque face contorted into a smile… To feel the guilt washed away, so completely…!

But Raoul, he brought that guilt on anew, and there was something else. A remnant of adoration left over from childhood passions was still desperately clinging to my emotions, refusing to let me walk away from that hurt face. He was shivering, turned near blue with the cold—Nadir seemed no better, as he stood a little behind Raoul, looking upon the scene with total confusion in his face. I pitied the older man, then—we all had gotten him wrapped up in something totally beyond him. It was horribly unjust of us, to have done it.

"Christine?" Erik asked softly. I looked back to him, and felt my heart stutter. He was looking at me with that disappointed look again, eyes crinkled around the edges—it really looked more like they had crumpled—lips turned up on one side, as if holding out for optimism, while the other end of those ugly appendages were dipping downwards, falling inevitably into despair. I opened my mouth, wanting to give him comfort, and suddenly could feel the ghost of those lips upon mine again. I brushed my fingers across my lower lip, but the sensation would not flee; I could still feel them, ice-cold, strange, moving against mine.

I realized, quite suddenly, that it must have been the first and only time those lips had ever been kissed.

"Christine?" From Raoul, this time. I looked back to him, and felt myself starting to cry again. I could not make both my men happy; how was I to choose? Perhaps the decision should have been obvious, as obvious as it was that night upon the roof, and I wished that it was—but suddenly, there seemed I could think of no wrong either of them had done me.

I remembered Raoul, with a red scarf in his hands—wet, shivering, pale, just as he was now—but delighted to have fetched for me my beloved scarf. He had always been so willing to dive head-first into danger for me…

Erik reached out and touched his fingers to my arm, trying desperately to call me back to him. He could see me drifting, see me slowly rising out of his reach; I let out a pitiful little cry, not at being touched but at being so confused! I could hear Erik crooning out immaculately beautiful poetry to me, that night by the lake, when he had given me such a delightful supper. I could hear that voice as it surrounded and devoured me, as he breathlessly hypnotized me, leading me down into the darkness after the Masque Ball… I could see him, smiling, laughing, not Erik the Phantom but Erik Sartre, as we walked along the streets of Paris. Our times together had been truly delightful, in spite of the lies. Could he ever be the same again? Or was I resigning myself to a life of darkness and misery with the Phantom of the Opera?

His eyes—those frightening, wolfish eyes—were pleading with me to return to him. I could almost hear the words of desperation, so intense was that gaze. I suppressed a shiver and looked back to Raoul, who seemed near to collapse. My lips parted again, and only a squeak of sound came out; foolish me, I had almost hoped my tongue would answer for me, where I could not.

"Christine," Raoul said, a little more forcefully than before, "come on. It is time to go." He reached out his hand, gestured impatiently to me. The hand upon my lips twitched a bit, but aside from that made no movement to meet him. I studied him through my veil of tears, and then darted my eyes back to Erik.

"I…" That was all I could manage.

Erik said nothing. That one hopeful corner of his lips had given in to the darker corner; his lips were now completely pulled downwards, in something more gentle and understanding than a frown, but something that was no less heartbroken.

That face, it was not so horrible. The longer one looked at it, the easier it became to accept it. A corpse's face it was, but it did not belong to a dead thing. It belonged to a man who had, in spite of all his flaws, managed to prove to me time and again that he held me above all other things in life… The question was only if I deserved such a pedestal.

Erik turned away from me, walked over to another part of the room. I felt pressure ease off of me; the decision seemed easier to make, when both of them were not glaring down at me with such ferocity. I did not watch him, to see what he would do; instead, I walked to Raoul, and took up his two hands, both of which were almost as cold as Erik's. When I spoke, however, I did not address my childhood friend, but Nadir:

"You both must go; you will die, if you do not see a doctor soon. You will catch your death." I patted Raoul's hand, and forced my eyes to find his. He seemed as if he would weep, but his tears did not catch my pity the way Erik's did. There would be other women who would love Raoul, other women who would make him far happier than I. No one would ever love poor Erik—no one, but his Christine.

"Christine… You mean I must leave you here, with this.. thing?"

I shook my head. "No, Raoul—you will leave me here with my husband." I let go of him, and Nadir drew him out of the room as easily and silently as if it were all a dream, as if it were some nightmare from which I would soon awaken. I wondered where I would be, when I awoke—if I would be still a child, or still naïve of Erik's presence, or if perhaps I would awake only a few weeks ago, in the bed which Erik had made mine.

I turned back to Erik, and offered him a smile.

* * *

Our eyes met, and I knew then what decision she had made. My heart beat heavy against my breastbone as she came to me from across the room; her hands reached out for mine, and as our fingers found one another's and curled up amidst one another, I realized that I had won. The woman who, more than anything in the world, I loved, had surpassed all my expectations of her and had found it in herself to love me too.

She smiled at me again, and I felt as if I would melt. So perfect, so wonderful…

I felt a strange sensation in my lungs, but one that I found I could ignore if I did not concentrate on it. It was almost like a need for air, or for coughing, and when I considered it I found I could not quite find the sensation of Christine's fingers on mine. She did not notice my sudden distractedness; I locked my eyes with hers, found her still smiling warmly at me. I opened my mouth to speak, but only a rasping cough came out.

Christine did not notice, only smiled up at me still, as if frozen forever in that singular expression, like a too-lovely porcelain doll, bloody and tear-stained though she was.

"Erik, I love you…"

She came close to me, close enough that I could smell her, and almost taste her. Her hand found my cheek again, and pressed itself there. I leaned into it; she rose upon her toes again, and our lips met for the second time. A warmth flooded my body like a sweet intoxication; when it receded, however, along with her mouth, it was quickly replaced with cold, and that tickling sensation in the bottom of my lungs again. I began to cough violently, so much so that my eyes closed, that I doubled over. I felt for a moment a sensation of falling, and then it seemed that everything had become much darker around me, though my eyes still were shut.

When I opened them, the room _was _dark. Something was pressing heavily against my side; after a moment of concentration, I discovered it to be the bottom of my coffin. Slowly I uncurled myself from a fetal-like position, rolled myself onto my back. How had I gotten here? Had unconsciousness found me again? Had she put me here?

I felt so very weak; even thought of movement seemed too much. I was shivering uncontrollably, though my own skin felt scaldingly hot to the touch. Ayesha I could feel near my head, purring loudly, and occasionally mewing somewhat pathetically.

I struggled upwards onto my elbows; a wave of nausea hit me with such force that I collapsed back down. Many long and shuddering breaths were taken, and still I felt as if I had gained only the slightest amount of oxygen. My body ached all over, the pain increasing every time my heart beat. It echoed through me in pulses and waves, sometimes so intense that unconsciousness threatened, other times only unbearable enough to make me subconsciously wish for eternal mercy. I tried to breathe slowly, and sat up again.

It took me many minutes, but eventually I managed to drag my half-dead body out of my coffin. I fell out of it, landed hard on the ground beside it. I cried out in pain, and curled around myself again. I felt sick, so sick—I felt as if I were dying. I called out for Christine, but only the empty silence of my house answered me. Had she left me? Was she asleep? Had something happened to her? Where had she gone?

When I thought back on what had happened, it was so hazy, fuzzy and strange, and my memory of it was barely discernible. I could see her face, glowing in the light, bloody and smiling and perfect… I could see those eyes peering up into mine… I could feel those lips touching mine… but it seemed so very far away, like a dream…

Nearby to me, my eyes picked out, was my needle. It was lying there as if it had been dropped, and it was empty. But last my needle had been seen, it was in the parlor… where Christine had thrown it aside…

My mouth opened wide, and I let out a scream so horrible that Ayesha ran away from me, ears pinned to her skull. I felt suddenly as if I would die—no, there was no doubt, I _would _die—but the pain seemed nothing compared to this new ache of the soul. The realization of what had happened to me was so vast, so horrible, that it almost threatened to send me back into the darkness. It was as if a madman had suddenly realized his hallucinations, spread across so many years, were just that: hallucinations. It was incomprehensible, but it was not all at once. It, in fact, seemed to make so much more sense now…

_Only a man… _I almost laughed. And oh, how I wished I had died before waking—to have died, thinking that dream was not a dream…

I dragged myself into the hallway, down the hallway, dragged myself out of my house. I made it several feet away, before I had to collapse on the cold sand, panting and screaming and aching with every inch of my being. I could hardly see now; I wanted to be sick, but somehow could not be. My heart was fluttering and halting with every beat, as if just barely managing to go on. I tried to think only of the feeling of Christine's hands on mine, Christine touching my face, Christine's lips, Christine's smile. I could still smell her perfume, or what I thought was her perfume, though I supposed that I would never really know. Perhaps it was some long-dead memory, employed to stand in for that smell…

I closed my eyes, buried my face in the sand. My heart was slowing down, with sadness or with the poison I do not know. It did not seem to matter; they were one and the same. She would never know, I realized. She would never know of Poor Erik, would never have the chance to meet me or touch me or fall in love with me. Perhaps she would not have, anyway; perhaps she could love me only in my dreams. But what a lovely dream… It was a good last dream to have had, a dream I would replace with nothing, a dream I would trade with no other dream. Maybe it was better that she would think of me only as her Angel of Music, though as an angel who had left her, and would never return to her.

But she did not need the angel any longer—her voice was perfect, and I was certain that the Vicomte would help her find her place in the Garnier. All of Paris would weep with the angels…

_Erik, I love you…_

_I love you…_

_I love you…_

_Erik…_

* * *

Far, far above, there stood a golden-haired girl, peering endlessly into the tall mirror in her dressing room. She could not say why, but there was something that drew her to that mirror. She felt almost as if there were something more to it, something in that mirror that was calling her. Her heart hurt, though she was not sure why; it was not her father, now, that made her eyes water. She felt as if she had missed something, something very important, though she couldn't say what. There was just a _something _there, hovering in the air, like a person she had not met or a thing she had not done, a word she had not said, a place she had not been, when she so wished that she had.

Earlier that day, she had read a story in the papers, a piece written regarding a Persian fairy-tale. She was not sure why she had read it; usually, she would skip such things—but something about it had drawn her eye. That sweet story had left her weeping uncontrollably, her eyes studying over and over the last line, trying to read it again and again through her tears. The nightingale that had sacrificed himself for his love for the beautiful white rose… The red rose Allah had never meant the world to know… The… The nightingale…

She let out a little cry, and immediately clapped her hand over her mouth. Her shoulder pressed against the mirror, and she slid down it to the floor. What was this sadness, this misery? She felt as if she were dying inside, dying from this emptiness that had suddenly struck her. There was something beautiful that had almost crossed her path, but had not—there was something she had missed out on, something she would never have the chance to see, something for which she desperately wished.

It was gone, forever—whatever it was. It had passed her by, and now she could do nothing but stand there and call after it in vain.

"Christine…!" 

She jumped, looking around the room. "Angel?" she called. "My Angel, is that you!"

But there was no one to answer her.


	21. Author's EndNote

My reviewers,

Thank you so much, for reading this story, and for consistently and faithfully leaving me such wonderful feedback. You helped me write this as much as anything else--I owe most of it to you. I think that, had I not had your standards to live up to, it would have turned out rather differently. I hope that you have enjoyed reading this story as much as I have enjoyed writing it; and, I am sorry, if the ending left you a bit heartbroken. It did the same to me--I cried the entire time I was writing it. But, as one of you said to me, "it is the stories with the tragic endings that we love best". Well, I agree completely--otherwise, I think, Phantom would not have such a devoted following.

And so, I will end this story now, on one final note--another of Tennyson's most beautiful of poems. I recommend him highly, to any who are unfamiliar with his work.

_Come not, when I am dead,  
To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,  
To trample round my fallen head,  
And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.  
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;  
But thou, go by._

_Child, if it were thine error or thy crime  
I care no longer, being all unblest:  
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,  
And I desire to rest.  
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie;  
Go by, go bye._

_-Alfred, Lord Tennyson _


End file.
